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Without a Home 


By 

EDWARD P. ROE 

M 



New York 

Dodd, Mead and Company 

Publishers 




Copyright. 

m 

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. 

Copyright, 1909 
By ANNA P. ROE 


Z^syf/ 

H 


7 T) .T Q. /&* 1 3— 


PREFACE. 


Just ten years ago I took my first hesitating and dubious 
steps toward authorship. My reception on the part of the 
public has been so much kinder than I expected, and the 
audience that has listened to my stories with each successive 
autumn has been so steadfast and loyal, that I can scarcely be 
blamed for entertaining a warm and growing regard for these 
unseen, unknown friends. Toward indifferent strangers we 
maintain a natural reticence, but as acquaintance ripens into 
friendship there is a mutual impulse toward an exchange of 
confidences. In the many kind letters received I have grate- 
fully recognized this impulse in my readers, and am tempted 
by their interest to be a little garrulous concer ung my literary 
life, the causes which led to it, and the methods of my work. 
Those who are indifferent can easily skip these preliminary 
pages, and those who are learning to care a little for the per- 
sonality of him who has come to them so often with the kin- 
dling of the autumn fires may find some satisfaction in learn- 
ing why he comes, and the motive, the spirit with which, in 
a sense, he ventures to be present at their hearths. 

One of the advantages of authorship is criticism ; and I 
have never had reason to complain of its absence. My only 
regret is that I have not been able to make better use of it. 
I admit that both the praise and blame have been rather be- 
wildering, but this confusion is undoubtedly due to a lack of 
the critical faculty. With one acute gentleman, however, who 


PREFACE. 


While composing narratives I forget everything and live 
in an ideal world, which nevertheless is real for the time. 
The fortunes of the characters affect me deeply, and I truly 
believe that only as I feel strongly will the reader be in- 
terested. A book, like a bullet, can go only as far as the 
projecting force carries it 

The final tests of all literary and art work are an intelligent 
public and time. We may hope, dream, and claim what we 
please, but these two tribunals will settle all values ; there- 
fore the only thing for an author or artist to do is to express 
his own individuality clearly and honestly, and submit pa- 
tiently and deferentially to these tests. In nature the lichen 
has its place as truly as the oak. 

I will say but a few words in regard to the story contained 
in this volume. It was announced two years ago, but I found 
that I could not complete it satisfactorily. In its present form 
it has been almost wholly re-cast, and much broadened in its 
scope. It touches upon several modem and very difficult 
problems. I have not in the remotest degree attempted to 
solve them, but rather have sought to direct attention to 
them. In our society public opinion is exceedingly power- 
ful. It is the torrent that sweeps away obstructing evils. 
The cleansing tide is composed originally of many rills and 
streamlets, and it is my hope that this volume may add a little 
to that which at last is irresistible. 

I can say with sincerity that I have made my studies care- 
fully and patiently, and when dealing with practical phases of 
city life I have evolved very little from my own inner con- 
sciousness. I have visited scores of typical tenements ; I 
have sat day after day on the bench with the police judges, 
and have visited the station-houses repeatedly. There are 
few large retail shops that I have not entered many times, 
and I have conversed with both the employers and employes 
It is a shameful fact that, in the face of a plain statute for 


PREFACE. 


Vil 

bidding the barbarous regulation, saleswomen are still com- 
pelled to stand continuously in many of the stores. On the 
intensely hot day when our murdered President was brought 
from Washington to the seaside, I found many girls standing 
wearily and uselessly because of this inhuman rule. There 
was no provision for their occasional rest. Not for a thou- 
sand dollars would I have incurred the risk and torture of 
standing through that sultry day. There are plenty of shops 
in the city which are now managed on the principles of 
humanity, and such patronage should be given to these and 
withdrawn from the others as would teach the proprietors 
that women are entitled to a little of the consideration that is 
so justly associated with the work of the Society for the Pre- 
vention of Cruelty to Animals. Mr. Bergh deserves praise 
for protecting even a cat from cruelty ; but all the cats in the 
city unitedly could not suffer as much as the slight growing 
girl who must stand during a long hot day. I trust the 
reader will note carefully the Appendix at the close o* this 
book. 

It will soon be discovered that tho modern opium or mor- 
phia habit has a large place in this volume. While I have 
tried to avoid the style of a medical treatise, which would be 
in poor taste in a work of fiction, I have carefully consulted 
the best medical works and authorities on the subject, and I 
have conversed with many opium slaves in all stages of the 
habit. I am sure I am right in fearing that in the morphia 
hunger and consumption one of the greatest evils of the 
future is looming darkly above the horizon of society. 
Warnings against this poison of body and soul cannot be too 
solemn or too strong. 

So many have aided me in the collection of my material 
that any mention of names may appear almost invidious ; but 
as the reader will naturally think that the varied phases of the 
opium habit are remote from my experience, I will say that I 


PREFACE. 


viii 

have been guided in my words by trustworthy physicians like 
Drs. E. P. Fowler, of New York ; Louis Seaman, chief of staff 
at the Charity Hospital ; Wm. H. Vail, and many others. I 
have also read such parts of my MS. as touched on this subject 
to Dr. H. K. Kane, the author of two works on the morphia 
habit. 

This novel appeared as a serial in the Congregationalist of 
Boston, and my acknowledgments are due to the editors and 
publishers of this journal for their confidence in taking the 
story before it was written and for their uniform courtesy. 

I can truly say that I have bestowed more labor on this book 
than upon any which have preceded it ; for the favor accorded 
me by the public imposes the strongest obligation to be coi> 
scientious in my work. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter pack 

I. One Girl’s Ideal of Life g 

II. Weakness 17 

III. Confidential 26 

IV. “ Pitiless Waves.” 31 

V. The Rudiments of a Man 43 

VI. Roger Discovers a New Type 53 

VII. Comparisons 61 

VIII. Changes 66 

IX. Neither Boy nor Man 77 

X. A Council 8g 

XI. A Shadow 97 

XII. Viewless Fetters 107 

XIII. A Scene Beneath the Hemlocks 119 

XIV. The Old Mansion 135 

XV. ‘‘Welcome Home.” , 146 

XVI. Belle and Mildred 159 

XVII. Belle Launches Herself 171 

XVIII. “1 Believe in You.” 185 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XIX. Belle Jars the “ System." 197 

XX. Several Quiet Forces at Work 211 

XXI. “He’s a Man.” 223 

XXII. Skilled Labor 233 

XXIII. The Old Astronomer 242 

XXIV. Roger Reappears 251 

XXV. The Dark Shadow of Coming Events 264 

XXVI. Waxing and Waning Manhood 272 

XXVII. A Slave 282 

XXVIII. New York’s Humanity 289 

XXIX. The Beatitudes of Opium 299 

XXX. The Secret Vice Revealed. 309 

XXXI. An Opium Maniac’s Christmas, 323 

XXXII. A Black Conspiracy 340 

XXXIII. Mildred in a Prison Cell 354 

XXXIV. “A Wise Judge” 369 

XXXV. “ I am so Perplexed ” 388 

XXXVI. A Woman’s Heart 39g 

XXXVII. Strong Temptation 410 

XXXVI IL No « Dark Corners ’ . ... 423 

XXXIX. “ Home, Sweet Home ” 434 

XL. Neighbors 446 

XLI. Glints of Sunshine 460 

XLII. Hopes Given and Slain. 4 6g 

XLIIl. Was Belle Murdered? 480 


CONTENTS. xi 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XLIV. The Final Consolations of Opium 485 

XLV. Mother and Son 495 

XLVI. A Fatal Error 505 

XLVII. Light at Eventide 516 

XLVIII. “ Good Angel of God ” 529 

XLIX. Home 54* 

Appendix - . 557 




WITHOUT A HOME 


CHAPTER I. 

ONE GIRL’S IDEAL OF LIFE. 

I T was an attractive picture that Martin Jocelyn looked 
upon through the open doorway of his parlor. His lively 
daughter Belle had invited half a score of her schoolmates 
to spend the evening, and a few privileged brothers had been 
permitted to come also. The young people were naturally 
selecting those dances which had some of the characteristics 
of a romp, for they were at an age when motion means en- 
joyment 

Miss Belle, eager and mettlesome, stood waiting for mu- 
sic that could scarcely be lighter or more devoid of moral 
quality than her own immature heart. Life, at that time, 
had for her but one great desideratum — fun ; and with her 
especial favorites about her, with a careful selection of ‘ ‘ nice 
brothers, ' ’ canvassed with many pros and cons over neglect- 
ed French exercises, she had the promise of plenty of it for 
a long evening, and her dark eyes glowed and cheeks flamed 
at the prospect. Impatiently tapping the floor with her foot, 
she looked toward her sister, who was seated at the piano. 

Mildred Jocelyn knew that all were waiting for her ; she 
instinctively felt the impatience she did not see, and yet 
could not resist listening to some honeyed nonsense that her 
“friend” was saying. Ostensibly, Vinton Arnold was at 


IO 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


her side to turn the leaves of the music, but in reality to 
feast his eyes on beauty which daily bound him in stronger 
chains of fascination. Her head drooped under his words, 
but only as the flowers bend under the dew and rain that 
give them life. His passing compliment was a trifle, but it 
seemed like the delicate touch to which the subtle electric 
current responds. From a credulous, joyous heart a crim- 
son tide welled up into her face and neck ; she could not 
repress a smile, though she bowed her head in girlish shame 
to hide it. Then, as if the light, gay music before her had 
become the natural expression of her mood, she struck into 
it with a brilliancy and life that gave even Belle content. 

Arnold saw the pleasure his remark had given, and sur- 
mised the reason why the effect was so much greater than 
the apparent cause. For a moment an answering glow 
lighted up his pale face, and then, as if remembering some* 
thing, he sighed deeply ; but in the merry life which now 
filled the apartments a sigh stood little chance of recognition. 

The sigh of the master of the house, however, was so deep 
and his face so clouded with care and anxiety as he turned 
from it all, that his wife, who at that moment met him, wag 
compelled to note that something was amiss. 

“ Martin, what is it ?” she asked. 

He looked for a moment into her troubled blue eyes, and 
noted how fair, delicate, and girlish she still appeared in hei 
evening dress. He knew also that the delicacy and refine- 
ment of feature were but the reflex of her nature, and, fof 
the first time in his life, he wished that she were a strong, 
coarse woman. 

“ No matter, Fanny, to-night. See that the youngsters 
have a good time,” and he passed hastily out. 

“ He's worrying about those stupid business matters 
again,” she said, and the thought seemed to give much relief. 

Business matters were masculine, and she was essentially 


ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE . 


il 


feminine. Her world was as far removed from finance as 
her laces from the iron in which her husband dealt. 

A little boy of four years of age and a little girl of six, 
whose tiny form was draped in such gossamer-like fabrics 
that she seemed more fairy-like than human, were pulling at 
her dress, eager to enter the mirth-resounding parlors, but 
afraid to leave her sheltering wing. Mrs. Jocelyn watched 
the scene from the doorway, where her husband had stood, 
without his sigh. Her motherly heart sympathized with 
Belle’s abounding life and fun, and her maternal pride was 
assured by the budding promise of a beauty which would 
shine pre-eminent when the school-girl should become a 
belle in very truth. 

But her eyes rested on Mildred with wistful tenderness. 
Her own experience enabled her to interpret her daughter’s 
manner, and to understand the ebb and flow of feeling 
whose cause, as yet, was scarcely recognized by the young 
girl. 

The geniality of Mrs. Jocelyn’s smile might well assure 
Vinton Arnold that she welcomed his presence at her daugh- 
ter’ s side, and yet, for some reason, the frank, cordial greet- 
ing in the lady’s eyes and manner made him sigh again. 
He evidently harbored a memory or a thought that did not 
accord with the scene or the occasion. Whatever it was it 
did not prevent him from enjoying to the utmost the pleas- 
ure he ever found in the presence of Mildred. In contrast 
with Belle she had her mother’s fairness and delicacy of 
feature, and her blue eyes were not designed to express the 
exultation and pride of one of society’s flattered favorites. 
Indeed it was already evident that a glance from Arnold was 
worth more than the world’s homage. And yet it was com- 
ically pathetic— as it ever is — to see how the girl tried to hide 
the “ abundance of her heart.” 

“ Millie is myself right over again,” thought Mrs. Joce* 


12 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


lyn ; ‘ ‘ hardly in society before in a fair way to be out of 
it Beaux in general have few attractions for her. Belle, 
however, will lead the young men a chase. If I’m any 
judge, Mr. Arnold’s symptoms are becoming serious. He’s 
just the one of all the world for Millie, and could give her 
the home which her style of beauty requires — a home in 
which not a common or coarse thing would be visible, but 
all as dainty as herself. How I would like to furnish her 
house ! But Martin always thinks he’s so poor.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn soon left the parlor to complete her arrange- 
ments for an elegant little supper, and she complacently felt 
that, whatever might be the tribulations of the great iron firm 
down town, her small domain was serene with present happi- 
ness and bright with promise. 

While the vigorous appetites of the growing boys and girls 
were disposing of the supper, Arnold and Mildred rather 
neglected their plates, finding ambrosia in each other’s eyes, 
words, and even intonations. Now that they had the deserted 
parlor to themselves, Mildred seemed under less constraint. 

“ It was very nice of you,” she said, “ to come and help 
me entertain Belle’s friends, especially when they are all so 
young.” 

** Yes,” he replied. “lama happy monument of self- 
sacrifice.” 

“ But not a brazen one,” she added quickly. 

” No, nor a bronze one, either,” he said, and a sudden 
gloom gathered in his large dark eyes. 

She had always admired the pallor of his face. ” It set 
off his superb brown eyes and heavy mustache so finely,” 
she was accustomed to say. But this evening for some 
reason she wished that there was a little more bronze on his 
cheek and decision in his manner. His aristocratic pallor 
was a trifle too great, and he seemed a little frail to satisfy 
even her ideal of manhood. 


ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE . 


*3 


She said, in gentle solicitude, “You do not look well this 
spring. I rear you are not very strong. ’ ’ 

He glanced at her quickly, but in her kindly blue eyes 
and in every line of her lovely face he saw only friendly 
regard — perhaps more, for her features were not designed for 
disguises. After a moment he replied, with a quiet bitterness 
which both pained and mystified her, 

“You are right. I am not strong." 

“ But summer is near, " she resumed earnestly. “You 
will soon go to the country, and will bring back this fall 
bronze in plenty, and the strength of bronze. Mother says 
we shall go to Saratoga. That is one of your favorite haunts, 
I believe, so I shall have the pleasure, perhaps, of drinking 
‘ your very good health ’ some bright morning before break- 
fast Which is your favorite spring ?’ * 

“ I do not know. I will decide after I have learned your 
choice. ’ ’ 

“ That’s an amiable weakness. I think I shall like Sara- 
toga. The great hotels contain all one wishes for amuse- 
ment. Then everything about town is so nice, pretty, and 
sociable. The shops, also, are fine. Too often we have 
spent our summers in places that were a trifle dreary. 
Mountains oppress me with a sense of littleness, and their 
wildness frightens me. The ocean is worse still. The 
moment I am alone with it, such a lonely, desolate feeling 
creeps over me — oh, I can’ t tell you ! I fear you tnink I 
am silly and frivolous. You think I ought to be inspired 
by the shaggy mountains and wild waves and all that Well, 
you may think so — I won’ t tell fibs. I don’ t think moth- 
er is frivolous, and she feels as I do. We are from the 
South, and like things that are warm, bright, and sociable. 
The ocean always seemed to me so large and cold and piti- 
less — to care so little for those in its power." 

“ In that respect it’s like the world, or rather the people 
in it--" 


*4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Oh, no, no !” she interrupted eagerly * “it is to the 
world of people I am glad to escape from these solitudes of 
nature. As I said, the latter, with their vastness, power, and, 
worse than all, their indifference, oppress me, and make me 
shiver with a vague dread. I once saw a ship beaten to 
pieces by the waves in a storm. It was on the coast near 
where we were spending the summer. Some of the people 
on the vessel were drowned, and their cries ring in my ears 
to this day. Oh, it was piteous to see them reaching out 
their hands, but the great merciless waves would not stop a 
moment, even when a little time would have given the life- 
boats a chance to save the poor creatures. The breakers just 
struck and pounded the ship until it broke into pieces, and 
then tossed the lifeless body and broken wood on the shore 
as if one were of no more value than the other. I can’ t 
think of it without shuddering, and I’ve hated the sea ever 
since, and never wish to go near it again. ’ ’ 

“You have unconsciously described this Christian city,” 
said Arnold, with a short laugh. 

“ What a cynic you are to-night ! You condemn all the 
world, and find fault even with yourself — a rare thing in cynics, 
I imagine. As a rule they are right, and the universe wrong. ’ ’ 
“ I have not found any fault with you,” he said, in a tone 
that caused her long eyelashes to veil the pleasure she could 
not wholly conceal. 

“ I hope the self-constraint imposed by your courtesy is 
not too severe for comfort I also understand the little fic- 
tion of excepting present company. But I cannot help re- 
membering that I am a wee bit of the world and very 
worldly ; that is, I am very fond of the world and all its 
pretty follies. I like nice people much better than savage 
mountains and heartless waves. ' ’ 

4 ‘ And yet you are not what I should call a society girl, 
Miss Millie.” 


ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE . 


*5 

4 I’m glad you think so. I’ve no wish to win that char- 
acter. Fashionable society seems to me like the sea, as rest- 
less and unreasoning, always on the go, and yet never going 
anywhere. I know lots of girls who go here and there and 
do this and that with the monotony with which the waves roll 
in and out. Half the time they act contrary to their wishes 
and feelings, out they imagine it the thing to do, and they do 
it till they are tired and bored half to death. ’ * 

4 What, then, is your ideal of life ?’ ’ 

Her head drooped a little lower, and the tell-tale color 
would come as she replied hesitatingly, and with a slight 
deprecatory laugh, 

“Well, I can’t say I’ve thought it out very definitely. 
Plenty of real friends seem to me better than the world’ s 
stare, even though there’s a trace of admiration in it. Then, 
again, you men so monopolize the world that there is not 
much left for us poor women to do ; but I have imagined 
that to create a lovely home, and to gather in it all the 
beauty within one’s reach, and just the people one best liked, 
would be a very congenial life-work for some women. That 
is what mother is doing for us, and she seems very happy 
and contented — much more so than those ladies who seek 
their pleasures beyond their homes. You see I use my eyes, 
Mr. Arnold, even if I am not antiquated enough to be 
wise. ’ ’ 

His look had grown so wistful and intent that she could 
not meet it, but averted her face as she spoke. Suddenly he 
sprang up, and took her hand with a pressure all too strong 
for the 4 4 friend ’ ’ she called him, as he said, 

44 Miss Millie, you are one of a thousand, ^ood-night.” 

For a few moments she sat where he left her. What did 
he mean ? Had she revealed her heart too plainly ? His 
manner surely had been unmistakable, and no woman could 
have doubted the language of his eyes. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


16 


" But some constraint/' she sighed, " ties his tongue." 

The more she thought it over, however — and what young 
girl does not live over such interviews a hundred times — the 
more convinced she became that her favorite among the 
many who sought her favor gave as much to her as she to 
him ; and she was shrewd enough to understand that the 
nearer two people exchange evenly in these matters the bet- 
ter it is for both. Her last thought that night was, "To 
make a home for him would be happiness indeed. How 
much life promises me !" 


WEAKNESS , . 




CHAPTER II. 

WEAKNESS. 

V INTON ARNOLD'S walk down Fifth Avenue wa* so 
rapid as to indicate strong perturbation. At last he 
entered a large house of square, heavy architecture, a crea- 
tion evidently of solid wealth in the earlier days of the 
thoroughfare’s history. There was something in his step as 
he crossed the marble hall to the hat-rack and then went up 
the stairway that caused his mother to pass quickly from her 
sitting-room that she might intercept him. After a moment’ s 
scrutiny she said, in a low, hard tone, 

“ You have spent the evening with Miss Jocelyn again." 
He made no reply. 

“ Are you a man of honor ?" 

His pallid face crimsoned instantly, and his hands clenched 
with repressed feeling, but he still remained silent. Neither 
did he appear to have the power to meet his mother's cold, 
penetrating glance. 

“ It would seem," she resumed, in the same quiet, incisive 
tone, ‘ ‘ that my former suggestions have been unheeded. I 
fear that I must speak more plainly. You will please come 
with me for a few moments. ' ' 

With evident reluctance he followed her to a small apart- 
ment, furnished richly, but with the taste and elegance of a 
past generation. He had become very pale again, but his 
face wore the impress of pain and irresolution rather than of 
sullen defiance or of manly independence. The hardness of 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


18 

the gold that had been accumulating in the family for gen- 
erations had seemingly permeated the mother’ s heart, for the 
expression of her son’s face softened neither her tone nor 
manner. And yet not for a moment could she be made to 
think of herself as cruel, or even stern. She was simply firm 
and sensible in the performance of her duty. She was but 
maintaining the traditional policy of the family, and was con- 
scious that society would thoroughly approve of her course. 
Chief of all, she sincerely believed that she was promoting 
her son’s welfare, but she had not Mrs. Jocelyn’s gentle ways, 
of manifesting solicitude. 

After a moment of oppressive silence, she began, 

“ Perhaps I can best present this issue in its true light b) 
again asking, Are you a man of honor ?' * 

“Is it dishonorable,” answered her son irritably, “ to 
love a pure, good girl ?” 

“ No,” said his mother, in the same quiet, measured 
voice ; ‘ ‘ but it may be very great folly and a useless waste. 
It is dishonorable, however, to inspire false hopes in a girl’s 
heart, no matter who she is. It is weak and dishonorable to 
hover around a pretty face like a poor moth that singes its 
wings.” 

In sudden, passionate appeal, he exclaimed, “ If I can win 
Miss Jocelyn, why cannot I marry her ? She is as good as 
she is beautiful. If you knew her as I do you would be 
proud to call her your daughter. They live very prettily, 
even elegantly — ” 

By a simple, deprecatory gesture Mrs. Arnold made her 
son feel that it was useless to add another word. 

“ Vinton,” she said, “ a little reason in these matters is 
better than an indefinite amount of sentimental nonsense. 
You are now old enough to be swayed by reason, and not 
to fume and fret after the impossible like a child. Neither 
your father nor I have acted hastily in this matter. It was a 


WEAKNESS. 


1 9 


great trial to discover that you had allowed your fancy to 
become entangled below the circle in which it is your privi- 
lege to move, and I am thankful that my other children have 
been more considerate. In a quiet, unobtrusive way we 
have taken pains to learn all about the Jocelyns. They are 
comparative strangers in the city. Mr. Jocelyn is merely a 
junior partner in a large iron firm, and from all your father 
says I fear he has lived too elegantly for his means. That 
matter will soon be tested, however, for his firm is in trouble 
and will probably have to suspend. With your health, and 
in the face of the fierce competition in this city, are you able 
to marry and support a penniless girl ? If, on the contrary, 
you propose to support a wife on the property that now 
belongs to your father and myself, our wishes should have 
some weight. I tell you frankly that our means, though 
large, are not sufficient to make you all independent and 
maintain the style to which you have been accustomed. 
With your frail health and need of exemption from care and 
toil, you must marry wealth. Your father is well satisfied 
that whoever allies himself to this Jocelyn family may soon 
have them all on his hands to support. We decline the risk 
of burdening ourselves with these unknown, uncongenial 
people. Is there anything unreasonable in that ? Because 
you are fascinated by a pretty face, of which there are thou- 
sands in this city, must we be forced into intimate associa- 
tions with people that are wholly distasteful to us ? This 
would be a poor return for having shielded you so carefully 
through years of ill health and feebleness. 

The young man’s head drooped lower and lower as his 
mother spoke, and his whole air was one of utter despond- 
ency. She waited for his reply, but for a few moments he 
did not speak. Suddenly he looked up, with a reckless, 
characteristic laugh, and said, 

“ The Spartans were right in destroying the feeble chil* 


20 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


dren. Since I am under such obligations, I cannot resist your 
logic, and I admit that it would be poor taste on my part 
to ask you to support for me a wife not of your choosing." 

‘ ‘ ‘ Good taste ’ at least should have prevented such a re- 
mark. You can choose for yourself from a score of fine 
girls of your own station in rank and wealth." 

“ Pardon me, but I would rather not inflict my weakness 
on any of the score." 

‘ ‘ But you would inflict it on one weak in social position 
and without any means of support. ’ ’ 

“ She is the one girl that I have met with who seemed 
both gentle and strong, and whose tastes harmonize with my 
own. But you don’t know her, and never will. You have 
only learned external facts about the Jocelyns, and out of 
your prejudices have created a family of underbred people 
that does not exist. Their crime of comparative poverty I 
cannot dispute. I have not made the prudential inquiries 
which you and father have gone into so carefully. But your 
logic is inexorable. As you suggest, I could not earn 
enough myself to provide a wife with hairpins. The slight 
considerations of happiness, and the fact that Miss Jocelyn 
might aid me in becoming something more than a shadow 
among men, are not to be urged against the solid reasons 
you have named." 

“ Young people always give a tragic aspect to these crude 
passing fancies. I have known ‘ blighted happiness ’ to bud 
and blossom again so often that you must pardon me if I act 
rather on the ground of experience and good sense. An 
unsuitable alliance may bring brief gratification and pleasure, 
but never happiness, never lasting and solid content." 

“ Well, mother, I am not strong enough to argue with 
you, either in the abstract or as to these ‘ * !se saws ' which so 
mangle my wretched self," and with the air of one exhausted 
and defeated he languidly went to his room. 


WEAKNESS. 


21 

Mrs. Arnold frowned as she muttered, “ He makes no 
promise to cease visiting the girl. ’ ’ After a moment she 
added, even more bitterly, ‘ ‘ I doubt whether he could keep 
such a promise ; therefore my will must supply his lack of de- 
cision ’ and she certainly appeared capable of making good 
this deficiency in several human atoms. 

If she could have imparted some of her firmness and rescv- 
lution to Martin Jocelyn, they would have been among the 
most useful gifts a man ever received. As the stanchness 
of a ship is tested by the storm, so a crisis in his experience 
was approaching which would test his courage, his fortitude, 
and the general soundness of his manhood. Alas ! the test 
would find him wanting. That night, for the first time in 
his life, he came home with a step a trifle unsteady. Innocent 
Mrs. Jocelyn did not note that anything was amiss. She 
was busy putting her home into its usual pretty order after 
the breezy, gusty evening always occasioned by one of Belle’s 
informal companies. She observed that her husband had re- 
covered more than his wonted cheerfulness, and seemed in- 
deed as gay as Belle herself. Lounging on a sofa, he laughed 
at his wife and petted her more than usual, assuring her that 
her step was as light, and that she still looked as young and 
pretty as any of the girls who had tripped through the parlors 
that evening. 

The trusting, happy wife grew so rosy with pleasure, and 
her tread was so elastic from maternal pride and exultation 
at the prospects of her daughters, that his compliments seemed 
scarcely exaggerated. 

“ Never fear, Nan,” he said, in a gush of feeling ; “I'll 
take care of you, whatever happens, ’ ’ and the glad smile she 
turned upon him proved that she doubted his words no more 
than her own existence. 

They were eminently proper words for a husband to ad- 
dress to his wife, but the circumstances under which they 


22 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


were uttered made them maudlin sentiment rather than a 
manly pledge. As spoken, they were so ominous that the 
loving woman might well have trembled and lost her girlish 
flush. But even through the lurid hopes and vague pros- 
pects created by dangerous stimulants, Mr. Jocelyn saw, 
dimly, the spectre of coming trouble, and he added, 

“ But, Nan, we must economize — we really must" 

“ Foolish man !" laughed his wife ; “ always preaching 
economy, but never practising it." 

“ Would to God I had millions to lavish on you !" he ex- 
claimed, with tears of mawkish feeling and honest affection 
mingled as they never should in a true man’ s eyes. 

‘ ‘ Lavish your love, Martin, * ’ replied the wife, ‘ ‘ and 
I'll be content" 

That night she laid her head upon her pillow without mis- 
giving. 

Mrs. Jocelyn was the daughter of a Southern planter, and 
in her early home had been accustomed to a condition of 
chronic financial embarrassment and easy - going, careless 
abundance. The war had swept away her father and 
brothers with the last remnant of the mortgaged property. 

Young Jocelyn’s antecedents had been somewhat similar, 
and they had married much as the birds pair, without know* 
ing very definitely where or how the home nest would be 
constructed. He, however, had secured a good education, 
and was endowed with fair business capacities. He was thus 
enabled for a brief time before the war to provide a comfort- 
able support in a Southern city for his wife and little daughter 
Mildred, and the fact that he was a gentleman by birth and 
breeding gave him better social advantages than mere wealth 
could have obtained. At the beginning of the struggle he 
was given a commission in the Confederate army, but with 
the exception of a few slight scratches and many hardships 
escaped unharmed. After the conflict was over, the ex- 


WEAKNESS. 


23 


officer came to the North, against which he had so bravely 
and zealously fought, and was pleased to find that there was 
no prejudice worth naming against him on this account 
His good record enabled him to obtain a position in a large 
iron warehouse, and in consideration of his ability to control 
a certain amount of Southern trade he was eventually given 
an interest in the business. This apparent advancement in- 
duced him to believe that he might safely rent, in one of the 
many cross-streets up town, the pretty home in which we find 
him. The fact that their expenses had always a little more 
than kept pace with their income did not trouble Mrs. Joce- 
lyn, for she had been accustomed to an annual deficit from 
childhood. Some way had always been provided, and she 
had a sort of blind faith that some way always would be. 
Mr. Jocelyn also had fallen into rather soldier-like ways, and 
after being so free with Confederate scrip, with difficulty 
learned the value of paper money of a different color. 

Moreover, in addition to a certain lack of foresight and fru- 
gal prudence, bred by army life and Southern open-hearted- 
ness, he cherished a secret habit which rendered a wise, steadily 
maintained policy of thrift well-nigh impossible. About two 
years before the opening of our story he had been the victim of 
a painful disease, the evil effects of which did not speedily pass 
away. For several weeks of this period, to quiet the pain, 
he was given morphia powders ; their effects were so agree- 
able that they were not discontinued after the physician 
ceased to prescribe them. The subtle stimulant not only 
banished the lingering traces of suffering, but enabled him 
to resume the routine of business with comparative ease much 
sooner than he had expected. Thus he gradually drifted into 
the habitual use of morphia, taking it as a panacea for every 
ill. Had he a toothache, a rheumatic or neuralgic twinge, 
the drug quieted the pain. Was he despondent from any 
cause, or annoyed by some untoward event, a small white 


*4 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


powder soon brought hopefulness and serenity. When 
emergencies occurred which promised to tax his mental and 
physical powers, opium appeared to give a clearness and 
elasticity of mind and a bodily vigor that was almost magical, 
and he availed himself of the deceptive potency more and 
more often. 

The morbid craving which the drug inevitably engenders 
at last demanded a daily supply. For months he employed 
it in moderate quantities, using it as thousands do quinine, 
wine, or other stimulants, without giving much thought to 
the matter, sincerely intending, however, to shake off the 
habit as soon as he felt a little stronger and was more free 
from business cares. Still, as the employment of the stimu- 
lant grew into a habit, he became somewhat ashamed of it, 
and maintained his indulgence with increasing secrecy — a 
characteristic rarely absent from this vice. 

Thus it can be understood that his mind had ceased to 
possess the natural poise which would enable him to manage 
his affairs in accordance with some wisely matured system of 
expenditure. In times of depression he would demand the 
most rigid economy, and again he would seem careless and 
indifferent and preoccupied. This financial vacillation was 
precisely what his wife had been accustomed to in her early 
home, and she thoughtlessly took her way without much re- 
gard to it. He also had little power of saying No to his 
gentle wife, and an appealing look from her blue eyes would 
settle every question of economy the wrong way. Next year 
they would be more prudent ; at present, however, there 
were some things that it would be very nice to have or to do. 

But, alas, Mrs. Jocelyn had decided that, for Mildred's 
sake, the coming summer must be spent at Saratoga. In 
vain her husband had told her that he did not see how it wai 
possible. She would reply, 

“ Now, Martin, be reasonable. You know Mr. Arnold 


WEAKNESS. 


35 


spends his summers there. Would you spoil Millie’s chances 
of making one of the best matches in the city ?” 

He would shrug his shoulders and wonder where the 
money was to come from. Meanwhile he knew that his part- 
ners were anxious. They had been strong, and had endured 
the evil times for years without wavering, but now were com- 
pelled to obtain a credit more and more extended, in the 
hope of tiding themselves over the long period of depression. 

This increasing business stagnation occasioned a deepening 
anxiety to her husband and a larger resort to his sustaining 
stimulant. While he had no sense of danger worth naming, 
he grew somewhat worried by his dependence on the drug, 
and it was his honest purpose to gradually abandon it as 
soon as the financial pressure lifted and he could breathe 
freely in the safety of renewed commercial prosperity. Thus 
the weeks and months slipped by, finding him more com- 
pletely involved in the films of an evil web, and more intent 
than ever upon hiding the fact from every one, especially 
his wife and children. 

He had returned on the evening of Belle’s company, with 
fears for the worst. The scene in his pretty and happy home, 
in contrast with the bitter experiences that might be near at 
hand, so oppressed him with foreboding and trouble that he 
went out and weakly sought temporary respite and courage 
in a larger amount of morphia than he had ever yet taken. 

While off his guard from the resulting exaltation, he met 
a business acquaintance and was led by him to indulge in 
wine also, with the results already narrated. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


26 


CHAPTER III. 

CONFIDENTIALo 

M ARTIN JOCELYN awoke with a shiver. He did 
not remember that he had been dreaming, but a dull 
pain in his head and a foreboding of heart had at last so 
asserted themselves as to banish the unconsciousness of sleep. 
His prospects had even a more sombre hue than the cold 
gray of the morning. All the false prismatic colors of the 
previous evening had faded, and no serene, steady light had 
taken their place. The forced elation was followed — as is 
ever the case — by a deeper despondency. The face of his 
sleeping wife was so peaceful, so expressive of her utter un- 
consciousness of impending disaster, that he could not en- 
dure its sight. He felt himself to be in no condition to meet 
her waking eyes and explain the cause of his fears. A sense 
of shame that he had been so weak the evening before also 
oppressed him, and he yielded to the impulse to gain a day 
before meeting her trusting or questioning gaze. Something 
might occur which would give a better aspect to his affairs, 
and at any rate, if the worst must come, he could explain 
with better grace in the evening than in his present wretched 
mood, that would prove too sharp a contrast with his recent 
gayety. 

He therefore dressed silently and hastily, and left a note 
saying that a business engagement required his early depart- 
ure. 44 She will have at least one more serene day before 
the storm, ’ ' he muttered. 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


27 


c * Now wasn’t that kind and thoughtful of papa to let us 
all sleep late after the company !” said Mrs. Jocelyn to Mil- 
dred. ‘ ‘ He went away, too, without his breakfast, ’ ’ and in 
her gentle solicitude she scarcely ate any herself. 

But weakly hiding trouble for a day was not kindness. 
The wife and daughter, who should have helped to take in 
sail in preparation for the threatened storm, were left uncon- 
scious of its approach. They might have noticed that Mr. 
Jocelyn had been more than usually anxious throughout the 
spring, but they knew so little of business and its risks, that 
ihey did not realize their danger. “ Men always worry 
about their affairs,” said Mrs. Jocelyn. “It’s a way they 
have. ’ ’ 

Mr. Arnold’s visits and manner were much more con- 
genial topics, and as a result of the entire confidence existing 
between mother and daughter, they dwelt at length on these 
subjects. 

‘ ‘ Mamma, ’ ’ said Mildred, * ‘ you must not breathe of it 
to a soul — not even to papa yet. It would hurt me cruelly 
to have it known that I think so much of one who has not 
spoken plainly — that is, in words. I should be blind indeed 
if I did not understand the language of his eyes, his tones, 
and manner. And yet, and yet — mamma, it isn’ t wrong for 
me to love — to think so much of him before he speaks, is 
it ? Dearly as I — well, not for the world would I seem or 
even be more forward than a girl should. I fear his people 
are too proud and rich to recognize us ; and — and — he says 
so little about them. I can never talk to him or any one 
without making many references to you and papa. I have 
thought that he even avoided speaking of his family.” 

“ We have not yet been made acquainted with Mr. and 
Mrs. Arnold,” said Mrs. Jocelyn meditatively. “ It is true 
we attend the same church, and it was there that Vinton saw 
you, and was led to seek an introduction. I’ m sure we have 


28 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


not angled for him in any indelicate way. You met him in 
the mission school and in other ways, as did the other young 
ladies of the church. He seemed to single you out, and 
asked permission to call. He has been very gentlemanly, 
but you equally have been the self-respecting lady. I do not 
think you have once overstepped the line of a proper reserve. 
It isn’t your nature to do such a thing, if I do say it. She 
is a silly girl who ever does, for men don’ t like it, and I 
don’ t blame them. Your father was a great hunter in the 
South, Millie, and he has often said since that I was the shy- 
est game he ever followed. But,” she added, with a low, 
sweet laugh, “ how I did want to be caught ! I can see 
now,” she continued, with a dreamy look back into the 
past, “ that it was just the way to be caught, for if I had 
turned in pursuit of him he would have run away in good 
earnest. There are some girls who have set their caps for 
your handsome Mr. Arnold who don’t know this. I am 
glad to say, however, that you take the course you do, not 
because you know better, but because you are better — be- 
cause you have not lost in city life the shy, pure nature of 
the wild flowers that were your early playmates. Vinton 
Arnold is the man to discover and appreciate this truth, and 
you have lost nothing by compelling him to seek you in 
your own home, or by being so reserved when abroad. ’ ’ 

While her mother’s words greatly reassured Mildred, her 
fair face still retained its look of anxious perplexity. 

“ I have rarely met Mrs. Arnold and her daughters,” she 
said ; “ but even in a passing moment, it seemed as if they 
tried to inform me by their manner that I did not belong to 
their world. Perhaps they were only oblivious — I don’t 
know.” 

“ I think that is all,” said Mrs. Jocelyn musingly. 
“ We have attended their church only since we came up 
town. They sit on the farther side, in a very expensive pew. 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


29 


tfhile papa thinks we can afford only a side seat near the 
door. It is evident that they are proud people, but in the 
matter of birth and good breeding, my dear, I am sure we 
are their equals. Even when poorer than we are now we 
were welcomed to the best society of the South. Have no 
fears, darling. When they come to know you they will be 
as proud of you as I am.” 

Oh, mother, what a sweet prophetess you are ! The life 
you suggest is so beautiful, and I do not think I could live 
without beauty. He is so handsome and refined, and his 
taste is so perfect that every association he awakens is refined 
and high-toned. It seems as if my — as if he might take out 
jf my future all that is hard and coarse — all that I shrink 
rom even in thought. But, mamma, I wish he were a wee 
bit stronger. His hands are almost as white and small as 
mine ; and then sometimes he is so very pale.” 

“Well, Millie, we can’t have everything. City life and 
luxury are hard on young men. It would be better for them 
if they tramped the woods more with a gun, as your father 
did. There was a time when papa could walk his thirty 
miles a day and ride fifty. But manly qualities may be those 
uf the mind as well as of muscle. I gather from what Mr. 
Arnold says that his health never has been very good ; but 
you are the one of all the world to pet him and take care of 
him. Most of the fashionable girls of his set would want to 
go here and there all the time, and would wear him out with 
their restlessness. You would be happier at home.” 

“ Indeed I would, mamma. Home, and heaven, are words 
that to me are near akin. ’ ’ 

“I’m glad you are in such a fair way to win the home, but 
not heaven I trust for a long time yet. Let us think of die 
home first. While I would not for the world wish you to do 
a thing which the strictest womanly delicacy did not permit, 
there are some things which we can do that are very proper 


30 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


indeed. Mr. Arnold has an eye for beauty as well as you* 
self, and he is accustomed to see ladies well dressed. He 
noticed your toilet last night as well as your face, and his big 
brown eyes informed me that he thought it very pretty. I 
intend that you shall appear as well as the best of them at 
Saratoga, and what we cannot afford in expensive fabrics we 
must make up in skill and taste. Luckily, men don’t know 
much about the cost of material. They see the general effect 
only. A lady is to them a finished picture, and they never 
think of inventorying the frame, canvas, and colors as a 
woman does. For quarter of the money I’ll make you ap- 
pear better than his sisters. So get your things, and we’ll 
begin shopping at once, for such nice work requires time. ’ ' 
They were soon in the temples of fashion on Broadway, 
bent upon carrying out their guileless conspiracy. Neverthe- 
less their seemingly innocent and harmless action was 
wretched folly. They did not know that it raised one more 
barrier between them and all they sought and hoped, for they 
were pending the little money that might save them from 
sudden and utter poverty. 


" PITILESS WAVES." 


3 ' 


CHAPTER IV. 

“PITILESS WAVES.” 

DEEPER shadow than that of the night fell upon 



l \ Mildred Jocelyn’s home after the return of her father. 
Feeling that there should be no more blind drifting toward 
he knew not what, he had employed all the means within 
his power to inform himself of the firm’ s prospects, and learned 
that there was almost a certainty of speedy failure. He was 
so depressed and gloomy when he sat down to dinner that 
nis wife had not the heart to tell him of her schemes to secure 
his daughter’s happiness, or of the gossamer-like fabrics she 
had bought, out of which she hoped to construct a web that 
would more surely entangle Mr. Arnold. Even her sanguine 
spirit was chilled and filled with misgivings by her husband’s 
manner. Mildred, too, was speedily made to feel that only 
a very serious cause could banish her father’s wonted good- 
humor and render him so silent. Belle and the little ones 
maintained the light talk which usually enlivened the meal, 
but a sad constraint rested on the others. At last Mr. Joce- 
lyn said, abruptly, “ Fanny, I wish to see you alone,” and 
she followed him to their room with a face that grew pale 
with a vague dread. What could have happened ?. 

“Fanny,” he said sadly, “our firm is in trouble. 1 
have hoped and have tried to believe that we should pull 
through, but now that I have looked at the matter squarely 
I see no chance for us, and from the words and bearing of 
my partners I imagine they have about given up hope them- 


3 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Oh, come, Martin, look on the bright side. You 
always take such gloomy views of things. They’ll pull 
through, never fear ; and if they don’ t, you will soon obtain 
a better position. A man of your ability should be at the 
head of a firm. You would make money, no matter what the 
times were/’ 

“ Unfortunately, Fanny, your sanguine hopes and absurd 
opinion of my abilities do not change in the least the hard 
facts in the case. If the firm fails, I am out of employment, 
and hundreds of as good — yes, better men than I, are look- 
ing vainly for almost any kind of work. The thought that 
we have laid up nothing in all these years cut me to the very 
quick. One thing is now certain. Not a dollar must be 
spent, hereafter, except for food, and that of the least costly 
kind, until I see our way more clearly.” 

“ Can’t we go to Saratoga?” faltered Mrs. Jocelyn. 

“ Certainly not. If all were well I should have had to 
borrow money and anticipate my income in order to spend 
even a few weeks there, unless you went to a cheap boarding- 
house. If things turn out as I fear, I could not borrow a 
dollar. I scarcely see how we are to live anywhere, much 
less at a Saratoga hotel. Fanny, can’t you understand my 
situation ? Suppose my income stops, how much ahead have 
we to live upon 5 ” 

Mrs. Jocelyn sank into a chair and sobbed, “ Oh that I 
had known this before i See there !” 

The bed was covered with dress goods and the airy noth- 
ings that enhance a girl’s beauty. The husband understood 
their meaning too well, and he muttered something like an 
oath. At last he said, in a hard tone, “ Well, after buying 
all this frippery, how much money have you left ?” 

“ Oh, Martin,” sobbed his wife, “ don’t speak to me in 
that tone. Indeed I did not know we were in real danger. 
You seemed in such good spirits last evening, and Mr. 


“ PITILESS WAVES." 


33 


Arnold showed so much feeling for Millie, that my heart has 
been as light as a feather all day. I wouldn’t have bought 
these things if I had only known — if I had realized it all.” 

Mr. Jocelyn now uttered an unmistakable anathema on 
>js folly. 

“ The money you had this morning is gone, then ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ How much has been charged ?” 

“ Don’t ask me.” 

He was so angry — with himself more than his wife — and 
so cast down that he could not trust himself to speak again. 
With a gesture, more expressive than any words, he turned 
on his heel and left the room and the house. For hours he 
walked the streets in the wretched turmoil of a sensitive, yet 
Weak nature. He was not one who could calmly meet an 
emergency and manfully do his best, suffering patiently 
meanwhile the ills that could not be averted. He could lead 
a cavalry charge into any kind of danger, but he could not 
stand still under fire. The temptation to repeat his folly of 
the previous evening was very strong, but it had cost him so 
dearly that he swore a great oath that at least he would not 
touch liquor again ; but he could not refrain from lifting 
himself in some degree out of his deep dejection, by a re- 
course to the stimulant upon which he had so long been de- 
pendent. At last, jaded and sober indeed, he returned to a 
home whose very beauty and comfort now became the chief 
means of his torture. 

In the mean time Mildred and her mother sat by the pretty 
fabrics that had the bright hues of their morning hopes, and 
they looked at each other with tears and dismay. If the silk 
and lawn should turn into crape, it would seem so in accord- 
ance with their feelings as scarcely to excite surprise. Each 
queried vainly, “What now will be the future?” The 
golden prospect of the day had become dark and chaotic, and 


34 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


in strong reaction a vague sense of impending disaster so op- 
pressed them that they scarcely spoke. Deep in Mildred j 
heart, however, born of woman’s trust, was the sustaining 
hope that her friend, Vinton Arnold, would be true to her 
whatever might happen. Poor Mrs. Jocelyn’s best hope was, 
that the financial storm would blow over without fulfilling 
their fears. She had often known her father to be half des- 
perate, and then there was patched up some kind of ar- 
rangement which enabled them to go on again in their old 
way. Still, even with her unbusiness-like habits of thought 
and meagre knowledge of the world, she could not see how 
they could maintain themselves if her husband’s income 
should suddenly cease, and he be unable to find a like 
position. 

She longed for his return, but when he came he gave her 
no comfort. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t speak to me, ’ ' he said ; “ I can tell you nothing 
that you do not already know. The events of the next few 
weeks will make all plain enough. ’ ’ 

The logic of events did convince even Mrs. Jocelyn that 
making no provision for a “ rainy day’ ’ is sad policy. The 
storm did not blow over, although it blew steadily and 
strongly. The firm soon failed, but Mr. Jocelyn received a 
small sum out of the assets, which prevented immediate want. 
Mildred’s course promised to justify Arnold’s belief that she 
could be strong as well as gentle, for she insisted that every 
article obtained on credit should be taken back to the shops. 
Her mother shrank from the task, so she went herself and 
plainly stated their circumstances. It was a bitter experience 
for the poor child — far more painful than she had antici- 
pated. She could not believe that the affable people who 
waited on her so smilingly a few days before would appear so 
different ; but even those who were most inclined to be harsh, 
and to feel aggrieved at their small loss in cutting the materia) 


“ PITILESS WAVES:" 


35 


returned, were softened as she said, gently and almost 
humbly : 

Since we could not pay for it we felt that it would be 
more honorable to bring it back in as good condition as 
when received. ’ ’ In every instance, however, in which the 
goods had been paid for, she found that she could effect no 
exchange for the money, except at such reduced rates that she 
might as well give them away. 

Even Mrs. Jocelyn saw the need of immediate changes. 
One of their two servants was dismissed. Belle pouted over 
the rigid economy, now enforced all too late. Mildred cried 
over it in secret, but made heroic efforts to be cheerful in the 
presence of her father and mother ; but each day, with a 
deeper chill at heart, she asked herself a thousand times, 
“ Why does not Mr. Arnold come to see me ?” 

Vinton Arnold was in even greater distress. He had to 
endure not only the pain of a repressed affection, but also a 
galling and humiliating sense of unmanly weakness. He, of 
course, learned of the failure, and his father soon after took 
pains to say significantly that one of the members of the iron 
firm had told him that Mr. Jocelyn had nothing to fall back 
upon. Therefore Arnold knew that the girl he loved must 
be in sore trouble. And yet, how could he go to her ? 
What could he say or do that would not make him appear 
contemptible in her eyes ? But to remain away in her hour 
of misfortune seemed such a manifestation of heartless in- 
difference, such a mean example of the world’s tendency to 
pass by on the other side, that he grew haggard and ghost- 
like in his self-reproach and self-contempt. At last his 
parents began to insist that his health required a change of 
air, and suggested a mountain resort or a trip abroad, and 
he was conscious of no power to resist the quiet will with 
which any plan decided upon would be carried out. He felt 
that he must see Mildred once more, although what he 




WITHOUT A HOME. 


would say to her he could not tell. While there had been 
no conscious and definite purpose on the part of his parents, 
they nevertheless had trained him to helplessness in mind 
and body. His will was as relaxed as his muscles. Instead 
of wise, patient effort to develop a feeble constitution and to 
educate his mind by systematic courses of study, he had 
been treated as an exotic all his days. And yet it had been 
care without tenderness, or much manifestation of affection. 
Not a thing had been done to develop self-respect or self- 
reliance. Even more than most girls, he was made to feel 
himself dependent on his parents. He had studied but 
little ; he had read much, but in a desultory way. Of busi- 
ness and of men’s prompt, keen ways he was lamentably 
ignorant for one of his years, and the consciousness of this 
made him shrink from the companionship of his own sex, 
and begat a reticence whose chief cause was timidity. His 
parents’ wealth had been nothing but a curse, and they would 
learn eventually that while they could shield his person from 
the roughnesses of the world they could not protect his mind 
and heart from those experiences which ever demand manly 
strength and principle. As a result of their costly system, 
there were few more pitiable objects in the city than Vinton 
Arnold as he stole under the cover of night to visit the girl 
who was hoping — though more faintly after every day of wait- 
ing — thai she might find in him sustaining strength and love 
in her misfortunes. 

But when she saw his white, haggard face and nervous, 
timid manner, she was almost shocked, and exclaimed, with 
impulsive sympathy, “ Mr. Arnold, you have been ill. I 
have done you wrong. ’ ’ 

He did not quite understand her, and was indiscreet 
enough to repeat, “ You have done me wrong, Miss 

Millie r 

*' Pardon me. Perhaps you do not know that we are in 


“ PITILESS waves:' 


V 

deep trouble. My father's firm has failed, and we shall have 
to give up our home. Indeed, I hardly know what we shall 
do. When in trouble, one’s thoughts naturally turn to one’s 
friends. I thought perhaps you would come to see me,’’ 
and two tears that she could not repress stood in her eyes. 

“Oh, that I were a man !’’ groaned Arnold, mentally, 
and never had human cruelty inflicted a keener pang than 
did Mildred's sorrowful face and the gentle reproach implied 
in her words. 

“I — I have been ill,” he said hesitatingly. “Miss 
Millie,” he added impulsively, “you can never knowhow 
deeply I feel for you. ’ ’ 

She lifted her eyes questioningly to his face, and its expres- 
sion was again unmistakable. For a moment she lost con- 
trol of her overburdened heart, and bowing her face in hei 
hands gave way to the strong tide of her feelings. “ Oh !” 
she sobbed, “ I have been so anxious and fearful about the 
future. People have come here out of curiosity, and others 
have acted as if they did not care what became of us, if the} 
only obtained the money we owed them. I did not think 
that those who were so smiling and friendly a short time 
since could be so harsh and indifferent. A thousand times I 
have thought of that poor ship that I saw the waves beat to 
pieces, and it has seemed as if it might be our fate. I sup- 
pose I am morbid, and that some way will be provided, but 
some way is not a way. ’ ’ 

Instead of coming to her side and promising all that his 
heart prompted, the miserable constraint of his position led 
him to turn from grief that he was no longer able to witness. 
He went to the window, and, bowing his head against the 
sash, looked out into the darkness. 

She regarded him with wonder as she slowly wiped her 
eyes. 

“ Mr. Arnold,” she faltered, “ £ hope you will forgive me 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


38 

for my weakness, and also for inflicting our troubles on 
you;” 

He turned and came slowly toward her. She saw that he 
trembled and almost tottered as he walked, and that his face 
had become ashen. The hand he gave her seemed like ice 
to her warm, throbbing palm. But never could she forget 
his expression — the blending of self-contempt, pitiable weak- 
ness, and dejection. 

* ‘ Miss Mildred, ’ ' he said slowly, ‘ ‘ there is no use in dis- 
guises. We had better both recognize the truth at once. At 
least it will be better for you, for then you may find a friend 
more worthy of the name. Can you not see what I am — a 
broken reed ? The vine could better sustain a falling tree 
than I the one I loved, even though, like the vine, my heart 
clung to that one as its sole support. You suffer ; I am in 
torment You are sad ; I despair. You associate strength 
and help with manhood, and you are right. You do not 
know that the weakest thing in the world is a weak, helpless 
man. I am only strong to suffer. I can do nothing ; I am 
nothing. It would be impossible for me to explain how 
helpless and dependent I am — you could not understand it 
My whole heart went out to you, for you seemed both gentle 
and strong. The hope would grow in my soul that you 
might be merciful to me when you came to know me as I 
am. Good-by, Millie Jocelyn. You will find a friend strong 
and helpful as well as kind. As for me, my best hope is to 
die. ’ ’ He bowed his head upon the hand he did not venture 
to kiss, and then almost fled from the house. 

Mildred was too much overcome by surprise and feeling to 
make any attempt to detain him. He had virtually ac* 
knowledged his love for her, but never in her wildest fancy 
had she imagined so dreary and sad a revelation. 

Mrs. Jocelyn, perplexed by Mr. Arnold’s abrupt depart, 
ure, came in hastily, and Mildred told her, with many tears, 


“ PITILESS WAVES." 


39 


all that had been said. Even her mother’s gentle nature 
could not prevent harsh condemnation of the young man. 

‘ ‘ So he could do nothing better than get up this little 
melodrama, and then hasten back to his elegant home,” she 
said, with a darkening frown. 

Mildred shook her head and said, musingly, “ I under- 
stand him better than you do, mamma, and I pity him from 
the depths of my heart. ’ ' 

“ I think it’s all plain enough,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, in a 
tone that was hard and unnatural in her. “ His rich parents 
tell him that he must not think of marrying a poor girl, and 
he is the most dutiful of sons.” 

“You did not hear his words, mamma — you did not see 
him. Oh, if he should die ! He looked like death itself,” 
and she gave way to such an agony of grief that her mother 
was alarmed on her behalf, and wept, entreated, and soothed 
by turns until at last the poor child crept away with throb- 
bing temples to a long night of pain and sleeplessness. The 
wound was ( ne that she must hide in her own heart ; her 
pallor and languor for several days proved how deep it had 
been. 

But the truth that he loved her — the belief that he could 
never give to another what he had given to her — had a secret 
and sustaining power. Hope is a hardy plant in the hearts 
of the young. Though the future was dark, it still had its 
possibilities of good. Womanlike, she thought more of his 
trouble than of her own, and that which most depressed her 
was the fear that his health might give way utterly. ‘ ‘ I can 
bear anything better than his death,” she said to herself a 
thousand times. 

She made no tragic promises of constancy, nor did she in- 
dulge in very much sentimental dreaming. She simply rec- 
ognized the truth that she loved him — that her whole woman's 
heart yearned in tenderness over him as one that was crippled 


40 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and helpless. She saw that he was unable to stand alone 
and act for himself, and with a sensitive pride all her own 
she shrank from even the thought of forcing herself on the 
proud, rich family that had forbidden the alliance,. More- 
over, she was a good-hearted, Christian girl, and perceived 
clearly that it was no time for her to mope or droop. Even 
on the miserable day which followed the interview that so 
sorely wounded her, she made pathetic attempts to be cheer- 
ful and helpful, and as time passed she rallied slowly into 
strength and patience. 

The father’s apparent efforts to keep up under his misfor 
tune were also a great incentive to earnest effort on her part 
More than once she said in substance to her mother, “ Pap* 
is so often hopeful, serene, and even cheerful, that we ought 
to try and show a like spirit. Even when despondency does 
master him, and he becomes sad and irritable, he makes so 
brave an effort that he soon overcomes his wretched mood 
and quietly looks on the brighter side. We ought to follow 
his example. ’ ’ It would have been infinitely better had he 
followed theirs, and found in prayer, faith, and manly courage 
the serenity and fortitude that were but the brief, deceptive, 
and dangerous effects of a fatal poison. 

It was decided that the family should spend the summer at 
some quiet farm-house where the board would be very in- 
expensive, and that Mr. Jocelyn, in the mean time, should re- 
main in the city in order to avail himself of any opening that 
he might discover. 

After a day or two of search in the country, he found a 
place that he thought would answer, and the family prepared 
as quickly as possible for what seemed to them like a journey 
to Siberia. 

Mildred’s farewell to her own private apartment was full of 
touching pathos. This room was the outward expression not 
merely of a refined taste, but of some of the deepest feelings 


“ PITILESS WAVES." 


41 


and characteristics of her nature. In its furniture and adorn- 
ment it was as dainty as her own delicate beauty. She had 
been allowed to fit it up as she wished, and had lavished 
upon it the greater part of her spending money. She had 
also bestowed upon it much thought, and the skilful work 
of her own hands had eked out to a marvellous extent the 
limited sums that her father had been able to give her. The 
result was a prettiness and light, airy grace which did not 
suggest the resting-place of an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, 
but of one in whom the spiritual and the love of the beauti- 
ful were the ruling forces of life. 

It is surprising how character impresses itself on one's sur- 
roundings. Mrs. Arnold's elegant home was a correct ex- 
pression of herself. Stately, formal, slightly rigid, decidedly 
cold, it suggested to the visitor that he would receive the 
courtesy to which his social position entitled him, and noth- 
ing more. It was the result of an exact and logical mind, 
and could no more unbend into a little comfortable disordei 
than the lady herself. She bestowed upon its costly appoint- 
ments the scrupulous care which she gave to her children, 
and her manner was much the same in each instance. She 
was justly called a strong character, but she made herself felt 
after the fashion of an artist with his hammer and chisel. 
Carved work is cold and rigid at best. 

Mildred had not as yet impressed people as a strong char- 
acter. On the contrary, she had seemed peculiarly gentle 
and yielding. Vinton Arnold, however, in his deep need 
had instinctively half guessed the truth, for her influence 
was like that of a warm day in spring, undemonstrative, not 
self-asserting, but most powerful. The tongue-tied could 
speak in her presence ; the diffident found in her a kindly 
sympathy which gave confidence ; men were peculiarly drawn 
toward her because she was so essentially womanly without 
being silly. Although as sprightly and fond of fun as most 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


i 2 

young girls of her age, they recognized that she was perfectly 
truthful and loyal to all that men — even bad men — most 
honor in a woman. They always had a good time in her 
society, and yet felt the better and purer for it. Life blos- 
somed and grew bright about her from some innate influence 
that she exerted unconsciously. After all there was no mys- 
tery about it. She had her faults like others, but at heart 
she was genuinely good and unselfish. The gentle mother 
had taught her woman' s best graces of speech and manner ; 
nature had endowed her with beauty, and to that the world 
always renders homage. 

There are thousands of very pretty girls who have no love 
for beauty save their own, which they do their best to spoil 
by self-homage. To Mildred, on the contrary, the beautiful 
was as essential as her daily food, and she excelled in all the 
dainty handicrafts by which women can make a home attract- 
ive. Therefore her own little sanctum had developed like 
an exquisite flower, and had become, as we have said, an 
expression of herself. An auctioneer, in dismantling her 
apartment, would not have found much more to sell than i£ 
he had pulled a rose to pieces, but left intact it was as full of 
beauty and fragrance as the flower itself. And yet her own 
hands must destroy it, and in a brief time she must exchange 
its airy loveliness for a bare room in a farm-house. After that 
the future was as vague as it was clouded. The pretty trifles 
were taken down and packed ?” T ay 3 with tears, as if she were 
laying them in graves 


THE RUDIMENTS A MAM. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN. 

/l OTHER, I hain’t no unison with it at all,” said 
lVl Farmer Atwood, leaning on the breakfast table 
and holding aloft a knife and fork — formidable implements 
in his hands, but now unemployed through perturbation of 
mind. “ I hain’t no unison with it — this havin’ fine city 
folks right in the family. ’Twill be pretty nigh aa bad as visit- 
ing one’s rich relations. I had a week of that once, but, 
thank the Lord, I hain’t been so afflicted since. I've seen 
'em up at the hotel and riding by too often not to know 
'em. They are half conceit and half fine feathers, and thaf 
doesn’t leave many qualities as are suited to a farm-house. 
Roger and me will have to be — what was it that lecturin’ 
professor called it — ‘ deodorized ’ every momin’ after feedin’ 
and cleanin’ the critters. We’ll have to put on our go-to- 
meetin’s, instead of sittin’ down in our shirt-sleeves comfort* 
able like. I hain’t no unison with it, and it’s been a-grow* 
ing on me ever since that city chap persuaded you into being 
cook and chambermaid for his family. ” And Farmer At- 
wood’s knife and fork came down into the dish of ham with 
an onslaught that would have appalled a Jew. 

“The governor is right, mother,” said the young man 
referred to as Roger. “ We shall all be in strait-jackets for 
the summer. ” 

The speaker could not have been much more than twenty 
years old, although in form he appeared a full-grown man. 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


As he stood wiping his hands on a towel that hung in a 
corner of the large kitchen, which, except on state occasions, 
also served as dining and sitting room, it might be noted that 
he was above medium height, broad-shouldered, and strongly 
built. When he crossed the room his coarse working dress 
could not disguise the fact that he had a fine figure and an 
easy bearing of the rustic, rough-and-ready style. He had 
been out in the tall, dew-drenc'ned grass, and therefore had 
tucked the lower part of his trousers into his boot tops, and 
like his father dispensed with his coat in the warm June 
morning. As he drew a chair noisily across the floor and 
sat down at the table, it was evident that he had a good 
though undeveloped face. His upper lip was deeply shadowed 
by a coming event, to which he looked forward with no little 
pride, and his well-tanned cheeks could not hide a faint glow 
of youthful color. One felt at a glance that his varying ex- 
pressions could scarcely fail to reveal all that the young man 
was now or could ever become, for his face suggested a nature 
peculiarly frank and rather matter-of-fact, or at least un- 
awakened. The traits of careless good-nature and self- confi- 
dence were now most apparent. He had always been re- 
garded as a clever boy at home, and his rustic gallantry was 
well received by the farmers' daughters in the neighborhood. 
What better proofs that he was about right could a young fel- 
low ask ? He was on such good terms with himself and the 
world, that even the event which his father so deprecated did 
not much disturb his easy-going assurance. He doubted, in 
his thoughts, whether the city girls would “turn up their 
noses” at him, and if they did, they might, for all that he 
cared, for there were plenty of rural beauties with whom he 
could console himself. But, like his father, he felt that the 
careless undress and freedom of their farm life would be crit- 
icised by the new-comers. He proposed, however, to make 
as little change as possible in his habits and dress, and to 


THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN . 


45 


teach the Jocelyns that country people had “ as good a right 
to their ways as city people to theirs. ’ ’ Therefore the threat- 
ened invasion did not in the least prevent him from making 
havoc in the substantial breakfast that Mrs. Atwood and 
her daughter Susan put on the table in a haphazard man 
ner, taking it from the adjacent stove as fast as it was 
ready. A stolid-looking hired man sat opposite to Roger, 
and shovelled in his food with his knife, with a monotonous 
assiduity that suggested a laborer filling a coal-bin. He 
seemed oblivious to everything save the breakfast, and with 
the exception of heaping his plate from time to time he was 
ignored by the family. 

The men-folk were quite well along with their meal before 
Mrs. Atwood and Susan, flushed with their labors about the 
stove, were ready to sit down. They were accustomed to 
hear the farmer grumble, and, having carried their point, were 
in no haste to reply or to fight over a battle that had been 
won already. Roger led to a slight resumption of hostilities, 
however, by a disposition — well-nigh universal in brothers — 
to tease. 

* ‘ Sue, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ will soon be wanting to get some feath- 
ers like those of the fine birds that will light in our door-yard 
this evening. 

“ That’s it,” snarled the farmer ; “ what little you make 
will soon be on your backs or streamin’ away in ribbons. ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Mrs. Atwood a little sharply, “it’s quite 
proper that we should have something on our backs, and if 
we earn the money to put it there ourselves, I don’ t see why 
you should complain ; as for ribbons, Sue has as good right 
to ’ em as Roger to a span-new buggy that ain’ t good for any- 
thing but taking girls out in. ’ ’ 

“What made you have the seat so narrow, Roger?” 
asked Sue ; “ you couldn’t squeeze three people in to save 
your life.” 


46 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“I’m content with one girl at a time/' replied Roger, 
with a complacent shrug. 

“ And the same girl only one time, too, from what I hear. 
You’ve taken out all there are in Forestville, haven’t you ?” 

“ Haven’t got quite around yet. And then some prudent 
mothers do think the seat a trifle narrow, and the ones I’ d 
like to take out most can’t go. But there’s plenty that 
can.” 

“And one is as good as another,” added his sister, 
maliciously, ‘ ‘ if she will only talk nonsense, and let you hold 
her from falling out when you whisk over the thank-e- 
ma’ams.” 

‘ ‘ I didn’ t have to go from home to learn that most girls 
talk nonsense,” laughed Roger. “ By the way, how did 
you learn about the thank-e-ma’ams ? I didn’t teach you.” 

“ No, indeed ! Sisters may fall out for all that brothers 
care. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That depends on whose sisters they are, ’ ’ said Roger, 
rising. “ I now perceive that mine has been well taken 
care of. ’ ’ 

“You think other young men have your pert ways,” re- 
torted Sue, reddening. ‘ ‘ My friends have manners. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, I see. They let you fall out, and then politely 
pick you up. ’ ’ 

“ Come, you are both in danger of falling out now,” said 
the mother reprovingly. 

Roger went off whistling to his work, and the hired man 
lumbered after him. 

“Father, ’ said Mrs: Atwood, “who’ll go down to the 
river for the trunks ?’ ’ 

“ Well, I s’ pose I’ll have to,” grumbled Mr. Atwood. 
“ Roger don’ t want to, and Jotham can do more work in 
the cornfield than me.” 

“I’m glad you’re so sensible. Riding down to the river 


THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN. 


47 


and back will be a good bit easier than hoeing corn all day. 
The stage will be along about five, I guess, and I’ll get sup- 
per for ’em in the sittin’-room, so you can eat in your shirt- 
sleeves, if that’ 11 quiet your mind. ’ ’ 

With the aspect of a November day Mr. Atwood got out 
the great farm -wagon and jogged down to the landing on the 
Hudson, which was so distant as to insure his absence for 
several hours. 

It was a busy day for Mrs. Atwood and Susan. Fresh 
bread and cake were to be baked, and the rooms ‘ ‘ tidied up’ ' 
once more. A pitcher that had lost its handle was filled 
with old-fashioned roses that persisted in blooming in a grass- 
choked flower-bed. This was placed in the room designed 
for Mrs. Jocelyn and the children, while the one flower vase, 
left unbroken from the days of Roger’s boyish carelessness, 
adorned the smaller apartment that Mildred and Belle were 
to occupy, and this was about the only element of elegance 
or beauty that Susan was able to impart to the bare little 
room. Even to the country girl, to whom the term “ deco- 
rative art ’ ’ was but a vague phrase, the place seemed meagre 
and hard in its outlines, and she instinctively felt that it 
would appear far more so to its occupants. 

“ But it’s the best we can afford,” she sighed ; “ and at 
the prices they’ 11 pay us they shouldn’ t complain. ’ ' 

Still the day was full of pleasurable excitement and antici- 
pation to the young girl. She was aware that her mother’s 
tasks and her own would be greatly increased, but on the 
other hand the monotony of the farm-house life would be 
broken, and in the more distant future she saw a vista of new 
gowns, a jaunty winter hat with a feather, and other like con- 
ditions of unalloyed happiness. Susan had dwelt thus far in 
one of life’s secluded valleys, and if she lost much because 
her horizon was narrow she was shielded from far more. 
Her fresh, full face had a certain pleasant, wholesome aspect. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


like the fields about her home in June, as she bustled about, 
preparing for the ‘ ‘ city folks’ ’ whom her father so dreaded. 

Roger’s buggy was not yet paid for. It was the one great 
extravagance that Mr. Atwood had permitted for many a 
year. As usual, his wife had led him into it, he growling and 
protesting, but unable to resist her peculiar persistency. 
Roger was approaching man’s estate, and something must be 
done to signalize so momentous an event. A light buggy 
was the goal of ambition to the young men in the vicinity, 
and Roger felt that he could never be a man without one. 
He also recognized it as the best means of securing a wife to 
his mind, for courting on a moonlit, shadowy road was far 
more satisfactory than in the bosom of the young woman’s 
family. Not that he was bent on matrimony, but rather on 
several years of agreeable preparation for it, proposing to 
make tentative acquaintances, both numerous and miscella- 
neous. 

In his impatience to secure this four-wheeled compendium 
of happiness he had mortgaged his future, and had promised 
his father to plant and cultivate larger areas. The shrewd 
farmer therefore had no prospect of being out of pocket, for 
the young man was keeping his word. The acres of the 
cornfield were nearly double those of the previous year, and 
on them Roger spent the long hot day in vigorous labor in 
preference to the easy task of going to the river for the lug- 
gage. Dusty and weary, but in excellent spirits over the 
large space that he and the hired man had ‘ ‘ hilled up, ’ ’ he 
went whistling home through the long shadows of the June 
evening. The farm wagon stood in the door-yard piled with 
trunks. The front entrance of the house — rarely used by 
the family — was open, and as he came up the lane a young 
girl emerged from it, and leaned for a few moments against 
the outer pillar of the little porch, unconscious of the picture 
she made. A climbing rose was in bloom just over her 


THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN. 


49 


head, and her cheeks, flushed with heat and fatigue, vied 
with them in color. She had exchanged her travelling-dress 
for one of light muslin, and entwined in her hair a few buds 
from the bush that covered the porch. If Roger was not 
gifted with a vivid imagination he nevertheless saw things very 
accurately, and before he reached the head of the lane ad- 
mitted to himself that the old ‘ ‘ front steps’ ’ had never been 
so graced before. He had seen many a rustic beauty stand- 
ing there when his sister had company, but the city girl im- 
pressed him with a difference which he then could not un- 
derstand. He was inclined to resent this undefined superi- 
ority, and he muttered, “ Father’s right. They are birds 
of too fine a feather for our nest. ’ ’ 

He had to pass near her in order to reach the kitchen 
door, or else make a detour which his pride would not per- 
mit. Indeed, the youth plodded leisurely along with his 
hoe on his shoulder, and scrupled not to scrutinize the vision 
on the porch with the most matter-of-fact minuteness. 

“ What makes her so ‘ down in the mouth ’ ?” he queried. 
“ She doesn’t fancy us barbarians, I suppose, and Forest- 
ville to her is a howling wilderness. Like enough she’ll 
take me for an Indian. ’ ’ 

Mildred’s eyes were fixed on a great shaggy mountain in 
the west, that was all the more dark and forbidding in its own 
deep shadow. She did not see it, however, for her mind was 
dwelling on gloomier shadows than the mountain cast. 

As he passed he caught her attention, and stepping toward 
him a little impatiently, she said, 

‘ ‘ I suppose you belong to the premises ?’ ’ 

He made an awkward attempt at a bow, and said stiffly, 

1 ‘ I' m one of the Atwood chattels. ’ ’ 

The answer was not such as she expected, and she gave him 
a scrutinizing glance. ‘ ‘ Surely, if I have ever seen a laborer, 
he’s one,” she thought, as with woman’s quickness she in- 


WIiffOUT A WO ME. 


5 ° 

ventoried his coarse, weather-stained straw hat, blue cotton 
shirt crossed by suspenders mended with strings, shapeless 
trousers, once black, but now of the color of the dusty corn- 
field, and shoes such as she had never seen on the avenue. 
Even if Roger’s face had not been discolored by perspiration 
and browned by exposure, its contrast with the visage that 
memory kept before her but too constantly would not have 
been pleasing. Nothing in his appearance deterred her from 
saying briefly, “ I wish you would bring those trunks to 
our rooms. We have already waited for them some little 
time, and Mr. Atwood said that his man would attend to 
them when he came home from his work. ’ ' 

“ That’s all right, but I’m not his man,” and with another 
stiff bow he passed on. 

“ Roger,” called Mrs. Atwood from the kitchen door, 
“ where’s Jotham ?” 

“ Bringing home the cows.” 

‘ ‘ The ladies want their trunks, ’ ’ continued his mother, in 
a sharp, worried tone. ‘ ‘ I wish you men-folks would see 
to ’em right away. Why couldn’t you quit work a little 
earlier to-night ?’ ’ 

Roger made no reply, but proceeded deliberately to help 
himself to a wash-basin and water. 

“ Look here, Roger,” said his mother, in a tone she sel- 
dom used, ‘ ‘ ff those trunks are not where they belong in 
ten minutes, Susan and I’ll take ’em up ourselves.” 

‘ ‘ That would be a pretty story to go out,” added his 
sister. “ Little use your buggy would be to you then, for 
no nice girl would ride with you.” 

“ Come, come, what’s the use of such a bother !” said the 
young man irritably. “Mother knows that I’d carry the 
trunks up on Bald-Top before I’d let her touch them. 
That’s the way it will always be with these city people, I sup- 
pose. Everybody must jump and run the moment they 


THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN. 


5 » 


speak. Father’s right, and we’ll have to give up our old 
free-and-easy life and become porters and waiting-maids." 

"I’ve heard enough of that talk," said Mrs. Atwood em- 
phatically. “ Your father’s been like a drizzling north-easter 
all day. Now I give you men-folks fair warning. It 
you want any supper you must wake up and give me some- 
thing better than grumbling. I’m too hot and tired now to 
argue over something that’s been settled once for all." 

The "warning" had the desired effect, for Mrs. Atwood 
was the recognized head of the commissary department, and, 
as such, could touch the secret springs of motives that are 
rarely resisted. 

The open kitchen windows were so near that Mildred 
could not help overhearing this family jar, and it added 
greatly to her depression. She felt that they had not only 
lost their own home, but were also banishing the home feel- 
ing from another family. She did but scant justice to Mrs. 
Atwood’s abundant supper, and went to her room at last with 
that most disagreeable of all impressions — the sense of being 
an intruder. 

The tired children were soon at rest, for their time of sleep- 
less trouble was far distant. Belle’s pretty head drooped also 
with the roses over the porch as the late twilight deepened. 
To her and the little people the day had been rich in novelty, 
and the country was a wonderland of many and varied de- 
lights. In the eyes of children the Garden of Eden survives 
from age to age. Alas ! the tendency to leave it survives 
also, and to those who remain, regions of beauty and mystery 
too often become angular farms and acres. 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred still more clearly illustrated the 
truth that the same world wears a different aspect as the 
conditions of life vary. They were going out into the wilder- 
ness. The river was a shining pathway, whose beauty was a 
mockery, for it led away from all that they loved best. Th» 


5 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


farm-house was a place of exile, and its occupams a strange, 
uncouth people with whom they felt that they would have 
nothing in common. Mrs. Jocelyn merely looked forward 
to weeks of weary waiting until she could again join her 
husband, to whom in his despondency her heart clung with 
a remorseful tenderness. She now almost wished that they 
had lived on bread and water, and so had provided against 
this evil day of long separation and dreary uncertainty. 
Now that she could no longer rest in her old belief that there 
would be “ some way” of tiding over every financial crisis, 
she became a prey to forebodings equally vague that there 
might be no way. That her husband could spend day after 
day seeking employment, offering, too, to take positions far 
inferior to the one he had lost, was a truth that at first be- 
wildered and then disheartened her beyond measure. She 
felt that they must, indeed, have fallen on evil times when 
his services went a-begging. 

To Mildred the present was dark, and the future most 
unpromising ; but deep in her heart nestled the sustaining 
thought that she was not unloved, not forgotten. The 
will of others, not his own, kept her lover from her side. 
His weaknesses were of a nature that awakened her pity 
rather than contempt. If he had been a Hercules physically 
and a Bacon intellectually, but conceited, domineering, un- 
truthful, and of the male flirt genus — from such weaknesses 
she would have shrunk with intense repugnance. Her friends 
thought her peculiarly gentle in disposition. They did not 
know — and she herself might rarely recognize the truth — that 
she was also very strong ; her strength on its human side con- 
sisted in a simple, unswerving fidelity to her womanly nature 
and sense of right ; on the Divine side, God’ s word was tc 
her a verity. She daily said “Our Father” as a little child 
Has the world yet discovered a purer or loftier philosophy ? 


ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE . 


53 


CHAPTER VI 

ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE. 

Y OUNG Atwood rose with a very definite purpose on 
the following morning. For his mother’s sake he 
would be civil to their boarders, but nothing more. He 
would learn just what they had a right to expect in view of 
their business relations, and having periormed all that was 
“ nominated in the bond,” would treat them with such an 
off-hand independence that they would soon become aware 
that he, Roger Atwood, was an entity that could exist with- 
out their admiring approval. He meant that they should 
learn that the country was quite as large as the city, and that 
the rural peculiarities of Forestville were as legitimate as 
those which he associated with them, and especially with the 
young lady who had mistaken him for the hired man. There- 
fore after his morning work in the barn-yard he stalked to 
the house with the same manner and toilet as on the previous 
day. 

But there were no haughty citizens to be toned down. 
They were all sleeping late from the fatigues of their journey, 
and Mrs. Atwood said she would give the ‘ ‘ men-folks their 
breakfast at the usual hour, because a hungry man and 
& cross bear were nigh of kin. ’ ’ 

The meal at first was a comparatively silent one, but Roger 
noted with a contemptuous glance that his sister’s hair was 
arranged more neatly than he had seen it since the previous 
Sunday, and that her calico dress, collar, and cuffs were 
scrupulously clean. 


54 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ Expecting company ?” he asked maliciously. 

She understood him and flushed resentfully. “ If you wish 
to go around looking like a scarecrow, that’s no reason why I 
should,” she said. “ The corn is too large for the crows to 
pull now, so if I were you I would touch myself up a little. 
I don’t wonder that Miss Jocelyn mistook you for Jotham.” 

“ It’s well,” retorted Roger, with some irritation, “that 
your Miss Jocelyn has no grown brothers here, or you would 
come down to breakfast in kid gloves. I suppose, however, 
that they have insisted on a tidy and respectful waitress. 
Will you please inform me, mother, what my regulation cos- 
tume must be when my services are required ? Jotham and 
I should have a suit of livery, with two more brass buttons on 
my coat to show that I belong to the family. ’ ' 

‘ ‘ I think that a little more of the manner and appearance 
of a gentleman would show your relationship better than any 
amount of brass,” remarked his mother quietly. 

Roger was almost through his breakfast, and so, at no great 
loss, could assume the injured part. Therefore with a dignity 
that was somewhat in marked contrast with his rather un- 
kempt appearance he rose and stalked off to the cornfield 
again. 

“ Umph,” remarked Mr. Atwood sententiously, as he rose 
and followed his son. This apparently vague utterance had 
for his wife a definite and extended meaning. She looked 
annoyed and flurried, and was in no mood for the labors of 
preparing a second breakfast. 

The men-folks had better not roil me up too much, ’ ’ she 
said to her daughter. “ If your father had said No ! out 
and out, I wouldn’t have brought strangers into his home. 
But he kinder wanted me to have their money without the 
bother of having them around. Now one thing is settled— 
he must either help me make it pleasant for these people, or 
else tell them to leave this very day. ’ ’ 


ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE. 


55 


“ And how about Roger ?” asked Susan, still under the 
influence of pique. 

“ Oh, Roger is young and foolish. He’s a-growing yet, ” 
and the mother’s severe aspect relaxed. He was her only 
boy. 

Mr. Atwood, brought face to face with the alternative pre> 
sented by his practical wife, succumbed with tolerable grace. 
In truth, having had his grumble out, he was not so ver) 
averse to the arrangement. He was much like old Gruff, 
their watch-dog, that was a redoubtable growler, but had 
never been known to bite any one. He therefore installed 
himself as his wife’s out-of-door ally and assistant commis- 
sary, proposing also to take the boarders out to drive if they 
would pay enough to make it worth the while. As for 
Roger, he resolved to remain a farmer and revolve in his old 
orbit. 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were listless and depressed, and 
time hung heavily on their hands. They were in that con- 
dition of waiting and uncertainty which renders cheerful or 
systematic occupation well-nigh impossible. They daily 
hoped that a letter would come assuring them that Mr. Joce- 
lyn had secured a position that would change all their future 
for the better, but the letters received recorded futile efforts 
only, and often despondency ; but occasionally there would 
come a letter full of vague, sanguine hopes that first pro- 
duced elation and then perplexity that nothing came of them. 
His wife found his dejection contagious. If she had been 
with him she would have made strenuous efforts to cheer and 
inspirit, but without an unselfish woman’s strongest motive 
for action she brooded and drooped. Belle’s irrepressible 
vivacity and the children’s wild delight over the wonders of 
the fields and farm-yard jarred upon her sore heart painfully. 
She patiently tried to take care of them, but in thought and 
feeling she could not enter into their life as had been her 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


5 * 

custom. Belle was too young and giddy for responsibility, 
and Mildred had many a weary chase after the little explorers. 
In spite of his clearly defined policy of indifference, Roger 
found himself watching her on such occasions with a growing 
interest. It was evident to him that she did not in the slight- 
est degree resent his daily declaration of independence ; in- 
deed, he saw that she scarcely gave him any thoughts what- 
ever — that he was to her no more than heavy-footed Jotham. 

“ She does not even consider me worth snubbing," he 
thought, with much dissatisfaction, about a week subsequent 
to their arrival. 

In vain, after the labors of the day, he dressed in his best 
suit and sported a flaming necktie ; in vain he dashed away 
in his buggy, and, a little later, dashed by again with a rural 
belle at his side. He found himself unable to impress the 
city girl as he desired, or to awaken in her a sense of his 
importance. And yet he already began to feel, in a vague 
way, that she was not so distant to him, as distant from him. 

Belle soon formed his acquaintance, asking innumerable 
questions and not a few favors, and she lound him more 
good-natured than she had been led to expect. At last, to 
her great delight, he took her with him in his wagon to the 
post-office. The lively girl interested and amused him, but 
he felt himself immeasurably older than she. With a tend- 
ency common to very young men, he was more interested in 
the elder sister, who in character and the maturity that comes 
from experience was certainly far beyond him. Belle he un- 
derstood, but Mildred was a mystery, and she had also the 
advantage of being a very beautiful one. 

As time passed and no definite assurances came from 
her father, the young girl was conscious of a growing dis- 
satisfaction with the idle, weary waiting to which she and 
her mother were condemned. She felt that it might have been 
better for them all to have remained in the city, in spite of 


ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE . 


57 


the summer heat, than thus to be separated. She believed 
that she might have found something to do which would 
have aided in their support, and she understood more clearly 
than her mother that their slender means were diminishing 
fast. That she could do anything at a country farm-house 
to assist her father seemed very doubtful, but she felt the 
necessity of employment more strongly each day, not only 
for the sake of the money it might bring, but also as an 
antidote to a growing tendency to brood over her deep disap- 
pointment. She soon began to recognize that such self- 
indulgence would unfit her for a struggle that might be ex- 
tended and severe, and was not long in coming to the con- 
clusion that she must make the best of her life as it was and 
would be. Days and weeks had slipped by and had seen 
her looking regretfully back at the past, which was receding 
like the shores of a loved country to an exile. Since the 
prospect of returning to it was so slight, it would be best to 
turn her thoughts and such faint hope as she could cherish 
toward the vague and unpromising future. At any rate she 
must so occupy herself as to have no time for morbid self- 
communings. 

Her first resource was the homely life and interests ot 
those with whom she dwelt. Thus far she had regarded 
them as uncongenial strangers, and had contented herself 
with mere politeness toward them. In her sad preoccupation 
she had taken little note of their characters or domestic life, 
and her mother had kept herself even more secluded. In- 
deed the poor lady felt that it was hardly right to smile in 
view of her husband’s absence and misfortune, and she often 
chided Belle for her levity ; but Belle’s life was like an 
over-full fountain in spring-time, and could not be re- 
pressed. 

In her deep abstraction Mildred had seen, but had scarcely 
noted, certain changes in the farm-house that would have 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


5 » 

interested and pleased her had her mind been at rest. Al- 
most unconsciously she had revealed her love of that which 
is pretty and inviting ; therefore Susan, not content with 
being neat, was inclined to brighten her costume by an oc- 
casional ribbon, and to suggest comparisons between her 
fresh and youthful bloom and an opening flower that she 
would fasten in her hair as the summer day declined. So 
far from resenting this imitation of her own habits and 
tastes, Mildred at last recognized the young girl’s awakening 
perceptions of womanly grace with much satisfaction. Even 
poor Mrs. Atwood exhibited a tendency to emerge from her 
chronic and rather forlorn condition of household drudge. 
For years she had known and thought of little else save 
sordid work, early and late. The income from the small 
farm permitted no extra help except on rare occasions, and 
then was obtained under protest from her husband, who 
parted with a dollar as he would with a refractory tooth. 
His strong and persistent will had impressed itself on his 
family, and their home life had been meagre and uninviting ; 
the freedom and ease that he and Roger were so loath to lose 
consisting chiefly in careless dress and a disregard of the little 
refinements and courtesies of life. 

It was with some self-reproach that Mildred admitted that 
for nearly a month she had practically ignored these people, 
and that she was becoming selfish in her trouble ; and yet, 
not so much from a sense of duty, as from a kindling zest 
in life, she began to take an interest in them and their ways. 
She was still far too young for her spirit to lose its spring, 
even under a continuous weight of misfortune. Her nature 
was not morbid, but sunny and wholesome, and when with 
the children and Belle unexpected smiles would brighten 
her face like glints of sunshine here and there on a cloudy 
day. Deep as had been her wounds, she found that there 
were moments when she half forgot their pain, and an in- 


ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE . 


59 


stinct of self-preservation taught her that it would be best to 
forget them as far as possible. 

When the thought of trying to refine the somewhat rude 
household in which she dwelt occurred to her, she discovered 
that the work was already well begun, for the chief condition 
of success was present — the disposition to do as she would 
like. The Atwoods soon surmised that the family was in 
trouble of some kind, and were able to distinguish between 
pride of caste and a sorrowful preoccupation. It was scarcely 
in Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred’s nature to speak otherwise 
than gently and kindly, and so without trying they disarmed 
their hosts and won their sympathy. Notwithstanding their 
dejection and lassitude, they maintained the habits of their 
lives, and unwittingly gave Mrs. Atwood and her daughter a 
vague impression that neatness, attractiveness, and order were 
as essential as good morals. 

At first Roger had dressed more roughly than ever, in order 
to assert his right to his old ways, but as Mildred did not 
protest even by a glance, he next took pains to show her 
that he had “good clothes” if he chose to wear them. 
This fact she also accepted without the faintest interest, and 
so at last he was rather nonplussed. He was not accustomed 
to being politely ignored, and since he felt a growing interest 
in this new type of girl, he had an increasing desire to 
make her aware of his existence. ‘ ‘ Hang it all, ’ ’ he would 
mutter, “I’m no more to her than Jotham and the other 
farm animals. What can a fellow do to make her look at 
him as if she saw him ? She's very kind and polite and all 
that ; she’d as soon hurt the brindle cow as me, but this 
fact is not very flattering. However, I’ 11 find you out, my 
lady, and you too shall learn that the one whom you now 
regard as an object merely has a will and a way of his 
own. ' ' 

Therefore it may be guessed that in Roger Mildred might 


6o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


discover more docility and plastic readiness than she desired. 
Only old Mr. Atwood and Jotham seemed incorrigible mate- 
rial ; but she did not despair even of them, and resolved to 
set about reclaiming this family from barbarism at once. 


COMPARISONS 


CHAPTER VII. 

COMPARISONS. 

** \ l\ RS. ATWOOD," said Mildred one Saturday v*ven* 

1. V X ing, “ T 11 go with you to church to-morrow if you' 11 
let me. Belle has beon once, and it will be my turn to* 
morrow. ’ ' 

“ Oh, certainly, miss ; you will go with Roger in the 
buggy, I s’ pose, like Miss Belle." 

“ If you please, I’d rather go with you." 

“ Really, miss, the roads have been muddy of late, and the 
wagon isn’ t very nice. ’ ’ 

“ I would rather go with you," pleaded Mildred, with an 
appeal in her blue eyes that few resisted. 

“ Father," said Mrs. Atwood, as soon as her husband 
came in, “ Miss Jocelyn wishes to go with us to meeting to- 
morrow Car/ 1 you or Roger tidy up the wagon a bit? 
'Tain’t fit for her to ride in." 

“ There ’tis again — more time spent in fixing up and fuss- 
ing than in looking after the main chance. You are all 
gettin’ too fine for plain farmin’ people." 

“ I don't see why plain farming people need enjoy mud 
more’n other folks. You ought to be ashamed to ask your 
wife and daughter to ride m such a wagon. 

“ I don’t know why I should be more ashamed to-morrow 
than on any other Sunday, and v 0 u was never ashamed 
before. Your boarders don’t seem inclined to take any 
rides and pay for them, so I don’t see why I should fix up 


62 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


any more' n U3ual. Anyhow, it’s too late now; Jotham’fc 
gone home, I’m too tired, and Roger’s dressed to go out. 
Why can’ t she go with Roger ?’ ’ 

“ She says she’d rafeher go with us, and if you men-folks 
let her ride in that wagon I hope the minister will give you a 
scorching sermon” — and she turned toward her son, who, 
dressed in his rural finery, was finishing an early supper. 
To her surprise he, from whom she expected no aid, gave 
her a significant nod and put his finger on his lips. He had 
already decided upon one bold stratagem, in the hope of 
opening Mildred’s eyes, and if this failed his mother’s words 
suggested another line of policy. 

“ Sue,” he said, with affected carelessness, “ I may bring 
Amelia Stone to spend part of the evening with you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Amelia Stone isn’ t my style, if the young men do say 
she’s the prettiest girl in town.” 

“ If you don’t treat her well she’ll think you’re jealous,” 
said Roger, and with this artful stroke he departed to carry 
out his experiment. “ I’ll teach my city lady that I’m not 
a clodhopper that other girls won’t look at,” he thought as 
he drove away. 

Everything went according to his mind, for Amelia broke 
an engagement in order to come with him, and was very 
friendly. The young fellow thought that Mildred must see 
that he was not a person to be politely ignored when so hand- 
some a girl was flattering in her favors. Susan would not be 
thought jealous for the world, and so was rather effusive over 
Miss Stone. She also imbibed the idea that it might be a 
good chance to make Mildred aware that they knew some 
nice, stylish people ; therefore, as the rural beauty mounted 
the steps of the porch she introduced her to Mildred and 
Belle. Roger meanwhile stood near, and critically compared 
the two girls. They certainly represented two very different 
types, and he might have brought a score of his acquaintances 


CO MPA R I SO NS. 


63 


that have been more to Mildred's taste than the florid 

beauty whose confidence was boldness, and who had inven- 
toried her own pronounced charms more often than had any 
of her admirers. One girl was a lily, with a character like a 
delicate, elusive fragrance ; the other, a tulip, very striking, 
especially at a distance. The one no more asserted herself 
than did the summer evening ; the manner of the other the 
same as button-holed all present, and demanded attention. 
Her restless black eyes openly sought admiration, and would 
speedily sparkle with anger and malice should their request 
be unrewarded. Roger was quick enough to feel Mildred’s 
superiority, although he could scarcely account for it, and 
he soon experienced so strong a revulsion of feeling toward 
his unconscious ally, that he would have taken her home 
again with a sense of relief. 

“ If Miss Jocelyn thinks that’s the style of girl that takes 
with me, I might as well have remained a scarecrow. Amelia 
Stone seems loud as a brass band beside her, ’ ’ and his gal- 
lantries perceptibly diminished. 

True to her nature, Amelia assumed toward him what she 
imagined were very pretty airs of proprietorship. Roger 
knew well that her manner would have been the same toward 
the youth with whom, from a sudden caprice, she had broken 
her engagement for the evening. Her habitual coquetry 
nevertheless unwittingly carried out his original programme 
with a success that made him grind his teeth with rage, for 
he supposed that Mildred would gain the idea that they were 
congenial spirits drawn together by strong affinities. 

And she, half divining his vexation, shrewdly increased it 
by pretending to associate him with the transparent coquette, 
while at the same time manifesting disapproval of her by a 
fine reserve. Amelia felt herself scanned quietly, coldly, and 
half curiously, as if she belonged to some strange and hitherto 
unknown type, and her vivacious egotism began to fail her. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


*4 

She was much relieved therefore when Mildred excused her 
self and went to her room, for careless, light-hearted, and 
somewhat giddy Belle imposed no restraint. Roger, how- 
ever, did not recover himself, for he saw that he had made a 
false step in his effort to win recognition from Mildred, and 
he waited impatiently until his companion should suggest 
returning. This she soon did, and they rode toward her 
home with a mutual sense of dissatisfaction. At last Amelia 
broke out, “ I think she’s absurdly proud !” 

“ Who ?” Roger asked demurely. 

“You know who well enough. I thank my stars we have 
no eity folks putting on airs around our house. I suppose 
you think her perfection. You looked as if you did.” 

“I’m not acquainted with her, ’ ’ he said quietly. 

“ Not acquainted ! Darsn’t you speak to her high 
mightiness then ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I can speak to her when there is occasion, but 
that does not make one acquainted. I don’t understand 
her. ’ ’ 

“I do, perfectly. She thinks herself a wonderful deal 
better than you or me.” 

“ Perhaps she is,” he admitted. 

“ Well ! that’s a nice speech to make to me I I was a fool 
to break my engagement and go with you.” 

“ All right,” responded Roger, with satirical good-nature, 
as he assisted her to alight ; “we’ 11 both know better next 
time.” 

She would not speak to him again, but he escorted her to 
her door, and bowed in parting with mocking politeness. In- 
stead of inviting him in, as was her custom, she closed the 
door with a sharpness that spoke volumes. 

“ I don’t believe Miss Jocelyn ever banged a door like 
that in her life,” he muttered with a smile as he hastened 
homeward. 


COMPARISONS. 


*5 


Hearing unusual sounds in the farm-yard belore retiring, 
Mildred peeped out from under her curtain. The moonlight 
revealed that Roger was washing the wagon with a vigor that 
made her laugh, and she thought, ‘ ‘ After what l have seen 
this evening, I think I can civilize him 


WITHOUT A HOMA 


CHAPTER VIII. 

CHANGES. 

B ENT upon carrying out her project of introducing 
among the Atwoods a more gracious and genial fam- 
ily life, and lured by the fresh coolness of the summer morn- 
ing, Mildred left her room earlier than usual. Mrs. Atwood, 
whose one indulgence was a longer sleep on the day of rest, 
came down not very long after and began bustling about the 
kitchen. Hitherto their meals had been served to the Joce- 
lyns in the sitting-room, the farmer and his family eating as 
before in the kitchen. Mildred felt that they had no right 
to impose this extra labor on Mrs. Atwood, especially on the 
Sabbath, and she also thought it would do her mother good 
to be roused from the listless apathy into which she was sink- 
ing. These were her chief motives, but she knew that at no 
other place could people be taught the refinements of life 
more effectually than at the table, and it was her plan to 
bring about the changes she desired, without appearing to be 
the conscious cause. 

“ Mrs. Atwood," she said, “ why can we not all take our 
breakfast together in the sitting - room this morning ? I 
have noticed that your hired man is absent on Sundays" — 
her zeal for reform would not induce her to sit down with 
Jotham — “ and I can see no reason why you should have the 
task to-day of preparing two meals. Of course, if this is not 
agreeable to you let there be no change, but do not put your 
self to the extra trouble on our account. ' ’ 


CHANGES. 


6 ? 

“ Well, now, miss, you are very kind, and to tell you the 
'.ruth, I was thinking of this very thing, but we don’t wish to 
intrude. ’ ’ 

“ Intrude, Mrs. Atwood 1” exclaimed Mildred, assuming 
surprise. ‘ ‘ I don’ t understand you, and shall now feel hurt 
if we do not take our meals together to-day.’ ’ 

“ It’s very good of you to think of us, and Susan and me 
will have a more restful day.” 

Mildred gave her one of her rare smiles, which Mrs. Atwood 
said “ lighted up the old kitchen like a ray of sunshine,” and 
then went to prepare her mother and sister for the change. 
Belle was pleased, as she ever was with novelty. 

“ Millie,” she cried, “ you shall sit next to that great an- 
imal, Jotham, and if you don’t take care he’ll eat you un- 
awares. ’ ’ 

“ Jotham is not here to-day, and I’ll have him fed in the 
kitchen hereafter.” 

‘ ‘ Have you become mistress of the farm-house ? Has 
Roger made proposals? Won’t it be fun to hear Mr. At- 
wood grumble ! There is nothing I enjoy more than to heai 
him grumble and old Gruff growl. They must be chips ofl 
the same block.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn shrank from seeing and speaking to any one, 
but was much too unselfish to impose extra tasks on Mrs. 
Atwood. 

Susan soon came down to assist her mother, and was de- 
lighted at the prospect of taking her meals in the sitting-room, 
feeling that it was a decided social promotion. Moreover, 
like all young girls, she longed for companionship, and be- 
lieved that Mildred would now be more approachable. 

By and by Roger came from the barn-yard in his working- 
clothes, and seeing no preparations for breakfast in the kitch- 
en, exclaimed, 

‘ So we heathen must sit down to the second table to-day ' 


o6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Yes, if you wish. Susan and me are going to take oui 
breakfast in the sitting-room with Mrs. Jocelyn and her 
family.” 

“ Am I not invited ?” he asked a little anxiously. 

“ There’s no need of any invitation. You have as much 
right there as I have, only I would not come in looking like 
that. * * 

“ They won’t like it — this new arrangement.” 

“ It seems to me that you have grown very considerate of 
what they like, ’ ’ put in Susan. 

“ Miss Jocelyn proposed it herself,” Mrs. Atwood said, 
“ and if you and father would fix up a little and come in 
quietly and naturally it would save a deal of trouble. If I 
can’t get a little rest on Sunday I’ll wear out.” 

Roger waited to hear no more, and went hastily to his 
room. 

Mr. Atwood was more intractable. He distinguished the 
Sabbath from the rest of the week, by making the most of his 
larger leisure to grumble. 

** I’m in no state to sit down with those people,” he 
growled, after the change and the reasons for it had been ex* 
plained to him. 

“I'm glad you feel so,” his wife replied ; “ but your old 
clothes have not yet grown fast to you ; you can soon fix 
yourself up, and you might as well dress before breakfast as 
after it.” 

He was perverse, however, and would make no greater 
concession to the unwelcome innovation than to put on his 
coat. Mildred smiled mentally when she saw him lowering 
at the head of the table, but an icicle could no more continue 
freezing in the sun than he maintain his surly mood before 
her genial, quiet greeting. It suggested courtesy so irresisi 
ibly, and yet so unobtrusively, that he already repented his 
lack of it Still, not for the world would he have made any 


CHANGES. 


69 


one aware of his compunctions. Mrs. Atwood and Susan 
had their doubts about Roger, fearing that he would rebel 
absolutely and compel a return to their former habits. They 
were all scarcely seated, however, before he appeared, a little 
flushed from his hasty toilet and the thought of meeting one 
who had been cold and disapproving toward the belle of 
Forestville, but Mildred said “ good-morning ” so affably 
and naturally that he was made quite at ease, and Mrs. Joce- 
lyn, who had seemed unapproachable, smiled upon him so 
kindly that he was inclined to believe her almost as pretty as 
ner daughter. As for Belle and the children, he already felt 
well acquainted with them. Mrs. Atwood and Susan looked 
at each other significantly, for Roger was dressed in his best 
and disposed to do his best. Mildred saw the glance, and felt 
that the young fellow deserved some reward, so she began 
talking to him in such a matter-of-course way that before he 
was aware he was responding with a freedom that surprised 
all the family, and none more than himself. Mildred was 
compelled to admit that the “ young barbarian,” as she had 
characterized him in her thoughts, possessed, in the item of 
intelligence, much good raw material. He not only had 
ideas, but also the power of expressing them, with freshness and 
vivacity. She did not give herself sufficient credit for the 
effects that pleased her, or understand that it was h$r good 
breeding and good will that banished his tongue-tied embar- 
rassment. The most powerful influences are usually the 
most subtle, and Roger found, as had Vinton Arnold and 
others, that for some cause Mildred evoked the best theie was 
in him. 

Poor Mrs. Jocelyn did not have very much to ^ay. Her 
depression was too deep to be thrown off appreciably, but she 
replied to Mrs. Atwood’s remarks with her wonted gentleness. 
Belle’s spirits soon passed all bounds, and one of her wild 
sallies provoked a grim smile from even Mr. Atwood, and 


7 o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


she exulted over the fact all day. In brief, the ice seemed 
quite broken between the family and the ‘ ‘ boarders. 

The old farmer could scarcely believe his eyes when he 
went out to harness the horses to the three-seated wagon, for 
it was neat and clean, with buffalo robes spread over the 
seats. “ Well,” he ejaculated, “ what’s a-coming over this 
here family, anyway? I’m about all that’s left of the old rusty 
times, and rusty enough I feel, with everybody and everything' 
so fixed up. I s’ pose I’ll have to stand it Sundays, and the 
day’ll be harder to git through than ever. To-morrow I 11 
be back in the kitchen again, and can eat my victuals without 
Miss Jocelyn looking on and saying to herself, ‘ He ain t 
nice ; he don’t look pretty ; ’ and then a-showin’ me by the 
most delicate little ways how I ought to perform. She’s got 
Roger under her thumb or he wouldn’t have cleaned up this 
wagon in the middle of the night, for all I know, but I’m 
too old and set to be made over by a girl. 

Thus grumbling and mumbling to himself, Mr. Atwood 
prepared to take his family to the white, tree-shadowed 
meeting-house, at which he seldom failed to appear, for the not 
very devotional reason that it helped him to get through the 
day. Like the crab-apple tree in the orchard, he was a child 
of the soil, and savored too much of his source. 

Roger was of finer metal, and while possessing his father’ i 
shrewdness, hard common-sense and disposition to hit th& 
world between the eyes if it displeased him, his nature was 
ready at slight incentive, to throw off all coarseness and vul- 
garity. The greater number of forceful American citizens are 
recruited from the ranks of just such young men — strong, 
comparatively poor, somewhat rude in mind and person at 
the start, but of such good material that they are capable of a 
fine finish. 

Roger had grown naturally, and healthily, thus far. He 
had surpass* d the average bov on the play-ground, and had 


CHANGES. 


7i 


fallen slightly below him in the school-house, but more from 
mdifference and self-assurance than lack of ability. Even 
his father’ s narrow thrift could not complain of his work when 
he would work, but while a little fellow he was inclined to 
independence, and persisted in having a goodly share of his. 
time for the boyish sports in their season, and for all the books 
of travel and adventure he could lay his hands upon. Ii 
spite of scoldings and whippings he had sturdily held his 
own, and at last his father had discovered that Roger could be 
led much better than driven, and that by getting him inter- 
ested, and by making little agreements, like that concerning 
the buggy, the best of the bargain could always be obtained, 
for the youth would then work with a tfill and carry out hi? 
verbal contracts in a large, 'good-natured way. Therefore 
Mildred’s belief that he was good raw material for her human- 
izing little experiment had a better foundation than she knew. 
Indeed, without in the least intending it, she might awaken a 
spirit that would assert itself in ways as yet undreamed of by 
either of them. The causes which start men upon their 
careers are often seemingly the most slight and casual. Mil- 
dred meant nothing more than to find a brief and kindly- 
natured pastime in softening the hard lives and in rounding 
the sharp angles of the Atwood family, and Roger merely 
came in for his share of her attention. Flesh and spirit, how- 
ever, are not wood and stone, and she might learn in deep sur- 
prise that her light aesthetic touches, while producing pleasing 
changes in externals, had also awakened some of the pro- 
foundest motives and forces that give shape and color to life. 

In smiling ignorance of such possibilities, she said to him 
as she came out on the porch dressed for church, “ You have 
given your mother and me also a pleasant surprise, and we 
shall enjoy our ride to church far more, not only because the 
wagon is nice and clean, but also because of your thought- 

Iness of our pleasure. The wagon looked so inviting from 


7 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


our windows that I have induced my mother to go, and to 
take the children. I think they will keep stilL We will sit 
near the door, and I can take them out if they get tired/’ 

Her words were very simple, but she spoke them with a 
quiet grace all her own, while pulling her glove over a hand 
that seemed too small and white for any of the severer tasks 
of life. As she stood there in her pretty summer costume, a 
delicate bloom in her cheeks relieving the transparent fair- 
ness of her complexion, she seemed to him, as Amelia Stone 
had said, perfect indeed — and the young girl could not sup- 
press a smile at the almost boyish frankness of his admiration. 

“ You gave me a pleasant surprise, also,” he said, flushing 
deeply. 

“ I ?” with a questioning glance. 

“ Yes. You have brought about a pleasant change, and 
made breakfast something more than eating. You have made 
me feel that I might be less nigh of kin to Jotham than I 
feared. ’ ’ 

44 I shall imitate your frankness,” she replied, laughing ; 
,4 you are not near so nigh of kin to him as I feared.” 

44 I have not forgotten that you thought me identical with 
him,” he could not forbear saying. 

44 I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” she answered, 
with deepening color. 

44 Oh, you were not to blame in the least,” he said good- 
naturedly. 44 I deserved it.” 

44 You must remember, too,” she continued, deprecatingly, 

4 4 that I am a city girl, and not acquainted with country ways, 
and so have charity.” Then she added earnestly, 44 We do 
not want to put a constraint on your family life, or make 
home seem less homelike to you all.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn with Belle and the children were descending 
the stairs. 44 I misunderstood you, Miss Jocelyn, ’* said 
Roger, with a penitent look, and he hastily strode away. 


CHANGES. 


73 

“ I’ve disarmed him," thought Mildred, with a half smile 
She had, a little too completely. 

Belle claimed her old place with Roger, and their light 
wagon was soon lost in the windings of the road. 

“Millie," whispered Belle, as the former joined her at 
church, “ what could you have said to Roger to make him 
effervesce so remarkably ? I had to remind him that it was 
Sunday half a dozen times. ’ ’ 

“ What a great boy he is !" answered Mildred. 

“ The idea of my teaching him sobriety seemed to amuse 
him amazingly." 

“ And no wonder. You are both giddy children." 

“ Until to-day, when you have turned his head, he has 
been very aged in manner. Please let him alone hereafter ; 
he is my property. * ' 

‘ ‘ Keep him wholly, ’ ’ and the amused look did not pass 
from Mildred’s face until service began. 

Dinner was even a greater success than breakfast. Mrs. 
Jocelyn had become better acquainted with Mrs. Atwood 
during the drive, and they were beginning to exchange house- 
keeping opinions with considerable freedom, each feeling 
that she could learn from the other. Fearing justly that a 
long period of poverty might be before them, Mrs. Jocelyn 
was awakening to the need of acquiring some of Mrs. At- 
wood’s power of making a little go a great way, and the 
thought of thus becoming able to do something to assist her 
absent husband gave her more animation than she had yet 
shown in her exile. Mildred ventured to fill her vase with 
some hardy flowers that persisted in blooming under neglect, 
and to place it on the table, and she was greatly amused to 
see its effect on Roger and Mr. Atwood. The latter stared 
at it and then at his wife. 

“ Will any one take some of the flowers ?" he asked at last 
in ponderous pleasantry. 


74 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ I think we all had better take some, father/’ said Rogeu 
“ I would not have believed that so little a thing could 
have made so great a difference.” 

“ Well, what is the difference- 5 ” 

“ I don’t know as I can express it, but it suggests that a 
great deal might be enjoyed that one could not put in his 
mouth or his pocket. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Roger,” cried Belle, “ you are coming on famously. 

I didn’t know that you were inclined, hitherto, to put 
everything you liked in your mouth or pocket. What escapes 
some people may have had. ’ ’ 

“ I never said I liked you,” retorted the youth, with a 
touch of the broad repartee with which he was accustomed to 
hold his own among the girls in the country. 

“ No, but if I saw that you liked some one else I might be 
alarmed ” — and she looked mischievously toward Mildred. 

For reasons inexplicable to himself, he fell into a sudden 
confusion at this sally. 

With a warning glance at the incorrigible Belle, whose vital 
elements were frolic and nonsense, Mildred began talking to 
Mr. Atwood about the great hotel a few miles distant. 

“ Would you like to go there ?” asked Roger after a little. 

“ No,” she said ; “I have not the slightest wish to go 
there.” Indeed there was nothing that she shrank from 
more than the chance of meeting those who had known her 
in the city. 

Later in the day Susan said to her mother, with much satis- 
faction, “ She’s not stuck up at all, and we might have 
found it out before. I can't go back to the kitchen and live 
in our old haphazard way. I can see now that it wasn’t nice 
at all.” 

“We’ll see,” said the politic Mrs. Atwood. “We 
mustn’ t drive father too fast. ’ ’ 

Roger felt that at last he was getting acquainted, and he 


CHANGES. 


75 


looked forward to the long summer evening with much Dcp*-. 
But nothing happened as he expected, for Mildred was silent 
and preoccupied at supper, and Mrs. Jocelyn appeared to 
have relapsed into her old depression. 

Instead of going out in his buggy to spend the evening 
with one of his many favorites, as had been his custom, he 
took a book and sat down under a tree near the porch, so that 
he might join Mildred if she gave him any encouragement to 
do so. Belle found him taciturn and far removed from his 
gay mood of the morning, and so at last left him in peace. 

Sue was entertaining a rural admirer in the parlor, which 
was rarely used except on such momentous occasions, and all 
was propitious for a quiet talk with the object of his kindling 
interest. His heart beat quickly as he saw her appear on the 
porch with her hat and shawl, but instead of noticing him she 
went rapidly by with bowed head and climbed an eminence 
near the house, from which there was an extended view to 
the southward. He felt, as well as saw, that she wished to 
be alone, that he was not in her thoughts, that she was still 
as distant from him as he had ever imagined her to be. The 
shadows deepened, the evening grew dusky, the stars came 
out, and yet she did not return. For a long time he could see 
her outline as she sat on the hill top, and then it faded. He 
knew she was in trouble, and found a vague pleasure in watch- 
ing with her, in remaining within call should she be fright- 
ened, knowing, however, that there was little danger of this in 
quiet Forestville. Still, the illusion that he was in some sense 
her protector pleased him in his sentimental mood, and in 
after years he often recalled this first faint foreshadowing of 
his lot. 

Could he have seen the poor girl, when at last, conscious 
of solitude and darkness, she gave way to the passionate grief 
that, for her mother s sake, she had so long repressed, he 
would have felt that she was distant indeed — far removed by 


7 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


experiences of which he as yet knew nothing. She had been 
gazing southward, toward the city in which her father was 
vainly «eeking a foothold on the steep incline up which the 
unfortunate must struggle, and in fancy she saw him lonely 
dejected, and deprived of the family life of which he was so 
fond. Her sympathy for him was as deep as her strong 
affection. But in spite of her will her thoughts would recur 
to the beautiful dream which had been shattered in that dis- 
tant city. Not a word had she heard from Arnold since leav- 
ing it, and her heart so misgave her concerning the future 
that she threw herself on the sod, sobbing bitterly, and almost 
wishing that she were beneath it and at rest. In the deep 
abstraction of her grief she had scarcely noted the lapse of 
time, nor where she was, and the moon had risen when she 
again glided by Roger, her step and bearing suggesting las- 
situde and dejection. 

Soon after he entered the sitting-room, where he found his 
mother with a troubled look on her face. ‘ ‘ Roger, ’ ’ she 
said, “ I feel sorry for these people. When I went up-stairs a 
while ago I heard Mrs. Jocelyn crying in her room, and com- 
ing down with the lamp I met the young lady on the stairs, 
and her eyes were very red. It’s certain they are in deep 
trouble. What can it be? It’s queer Mr. Jocelyn doesn’t 
come to see them. I hope they are all right. 

“ Mother,” he burst out impetuously, “ they are all right 
—she is, anyway , ' ’ and he went abruptly to his room. 

“ Well,” remarked the bewildered woman sententiously, 
‘ there never were such goings on in the old house before.” 

An event momentous to her had indeed taken place— 
Roger’s boyish days were over. 


NEITHER BO Y NOR MAN. 


J7 


CHAPTER IX. 

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN. 

T HE two following weeks passed uneventfully at the 
farm-house, but silent forces were at work that were 
as quiet and effective as those of Nature, who makes her vital 
changes without ever being observed in the act. In respect 
to the domestic arrangements Mrs. Atwood effected a sensible 
compromise. She gave the men-folk an early breakfast in 
the kitchen, so that they might go to their work as usual, and 
her boarders were thus not compelled to rise at an unaccus- 
tomed hour. She and Susan afterward sat down with them, 
and Mr. Atwood and Roger joined them at dinner and sup- 
per. On the Monday following the scenes described in the 
last chapter, Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn were listless and un- 
able to recover even the semblance of cheerfulness, for a let- 
ter from Mr. Jocelyn informed them that he was making 
very little headway, and that some agencies which he accepted 
yielded but a scanty income. Mildred chafed more bitterly 
than ever over her position of idle waiting, and even grew 
irritable under it. More than once Roger heard her speak 
to Belle and the children with a sharpness and impatience 
which proved her not angelic. This did not greatly disturb 
him, for he neither “ wanted to be an angel ” nor wished to 
have much to do with uncomfortable perfection. A human, 
spirited girl was quite to his taste, and he was quick-witted 
enough to see that unrest and anxiety were the causes of her 
temper. Poor Mrs. Jocelyn was too gentle for irritation, and 
only grew more despondent than ever at hope deferred. 


78 


WITHOUT A HOME 


‘ Millie,” she said, “ I have dreadful forebodings, and 
can never forgive myself that I did not think night and day 
how to save instead of how to spend. What should we do if 
we had no money at all V ’ 

“ Belle and I must go to work/' said Mildred, with a 
resolute face, “ and it’s a shame we are not at work now/’ 

‘ ‘ What can you do when your father can do so little V ’ 

“ Other poor people live ; so can we. I can’t stand this 
wretched waiting and ‘separation much longer,” and she 
wrote as much to her father. In the hope of obtaining a re- 
sponse favorable to her wishes she became more cheerful. 
Every day increased her resolution to put an end to their sus- 
pense, and to accept their lot with such fortitude as they 
could command. 

One morning she found Mr. and Mrs. Atwood preparing 
to go to the nearest market town with butter, eggs, and other 
farm produce. She readily obtained permission to accom- 
pany them, and made some mysterious purchases. From 
this time onward Roger observed that she was much in her 
room, and that she went out more for exercise than frc m the 
motive of getting through with the weary, idle hours. For 
some reason she also gained such an influence over thought- 
less Belle that the latter took tolerably good care of little Fred 
and Minnie, as the children were familiarly called. While 
she maintained toward him her polite and friendly manner, 
he saw that he was forgotten, and that it had not entered her 
mind that he could ever do anything for her or be anything 
more to her than at the present time. But every hour she 
gained a stronger hold upon his sympathy, and occasionally, 
when she thought herself unobserved, he saw a troubled and 
almost fearful look come into her eyes, as if something were 
present to her imagination that inspired the strongest dread. 
At such times he was mastered by impulses of self-sacrifice 
that would have seemed very absurd if put into plain words- 


NEITHER BOY NOR MAN 


79 


He kept his thoughts, however, to himself, and with an in- 
stinctive reticence sought to disguise even from his mother 
the feelings that were so new, and so full of delicious pain. 
That he was becoming quite different from the careless, self- 
satisfied young fellow that he had been hitherto was apparent 
to all, and after his outburst on Sunday evening his mother 
half guessed the cause. But he misled her to some extent, 
and Susan altogether, by saying, “ I’ve had a falling-out 
with Amelia Stone.” 

“ Well, she’s the last girl in the world that I’d mope about 
if I were a man,” was his sister’s emphatic reply. 

“ You’ re not a man ; besides I’m not moping. I’m only 
cutting my wisdom teeth. I want to do something in the 
world, and I’m thinking about it.” 

“ He’s a-growing,” said his mother with a smile, and on 
this theory she usually explained all of her son’s vagaries. 

He still further misled his unsophisticated sister by making 
no special effort to seek Mildred’s society. Alter one or two 
rather futile attempts he saw that he would ali mate the sad- 
hearted girl by obtrusive advances, and he contented himself 
by trying to understand her, in the hope that at some future 
time he might learn to approach her more acceptably. The 
thought that she would soon leave the farm-house depressed 
him greatly. She had suggested to him a new and wholly 
different life from that which he had led hitherto, and he felt 
within himself no power or inclination to go on with his old 
ways. These thoughts he also brooded over in silence, and 
let himself drift in a current which seemed irresistible. 

During this period he was under the influence of neither 
apathy nor dejection. On the contrary, his mind was surging 
with half -formed plans, crude purposes, and ambitious 
dreams. His horizon lifted from the farm and Forestville 
until there seemed space for a notable career. His soul 
kindled at the thought of winning a position that would raise 


Bo 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


him to Mildred’s side. So far from fearing to bum his 
ships, and strike out unsupported, the impulse grew strong to 
make the attempt at any cost. He was sure that his father 
would not listen to the project, and that he would be wholly 
unaided, but not many days passed before the thought of such 
obstacles ceased to influence him. “ I’ll take my way 
through the world, and cut my own swath,’’ he muttered a 
hundred times as he swung the scythe under the July sun. 

Moreover, he had a growing belief in his power to climb 
the heights of success. His favorite books of travel and ad- 
venture that he had devoured in boyhood made almost any- 
thing seem possible, and the various biographies that the vil- 
lage library furnished revealed grand careers in the face ot 
enormous obstacles. His mind was awaking like a young 
giant eager for achievement. Even after the toil of long, hot 
days he took up his old school-books in the solitude of his 
room, and found that he could review them with the ease with 
which he would read a story. “ I’ve got some brains as well 
as muscle,” he would mutter, exultantly. “ The time shall 
come when Mildred Jocelyn won’t mistake me for Jotham.” 

Poor Mr. Atwood would have been in consternation had 
he known what was passing in his son’s mind ; and Mildred 
even less pleased, for after all it was she who had inspired the 
thoughts which were transforming him from a simple country 
youth into an ambitious, venturesome man. 

He knew of but one way to please her, but he made the 
most of that, and worked quietly but assiduously whenever he 
could without exciting his father’s opposition. After the 
day’s tasks were over the time was his own. He began by 
cutting all the weeds and grass in the door-yard and around 
the house. Palings that had disappeared from the fence were 
replaced, and all were whitewashed. 

Mrs. Atwood and Susan were greatly pleased at the changes, 
but thought it politic not to say much about them ; one 


NEITHER BOY NOR MAN 


Si 

evening, however, his father began to banter him, remarking 
that Roger must be intending to ‘ ‘ bring home a wife some 
fine morning. ' ’ The young fellow reddened resentfully, and 
brusquely retorted that they ‘ ‘ had lived in their old slovenly 
way long enough. People might well think they were going 
to the bad." 

This practical view somewhat reconciled his father to the 
new ideas, and suggested that Roger was not so daft as he 
feared. A little time after he was led to believe his son to be 
shrewder than himself. Needing some money, he took a note 
to the bank with much misgiving, but was agreeably surprised 
when one of the officers said affably, ‘ ‘ I think we can accom- 
modate you, Mr. Atwood. I was by your place the other 
day, and it is so improved that I scarcely knew it. Thrift and 
credit go together. ’ ' 

But Mildred doubted whether thrift and policy were the 
only motives which had led to Roger’ s unwonted action, and 
believed rather that he had awakened to a perception of the 
value and attractiveness of those things which hitherto he had 
not appreciated. This, in a sense, was already true, but had 
6he known to what extent she was in his thoughts she would 
not have smiled so complacently when, on the Saturday 
morning after the completion of his other labors, she noted 
that the weed-choked flower-borders along the walk had been 
cleaned and neatly rounded up, and the walk itself put in 
prefect order. “ The flower-beds remind me of himself," 
she thought, as from time to time she glanced at them 
through her open window. ‘ ‘ They contain a good deal of 
vacant space, and suggest wnat might be there rather than 
what is. Would to heaven, though, that Mr. Arnold had 
more of his muscle and decision. If Vinton were only 
different; how different all the future might be } But I fear, 
I fear. We have not enough money to last all summer if we 
remain here, and father writes so discouragingly. Thank 


8 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


God, I'm no longer idle, whether anything comes of my 
work or not,” and the delicate piece of fancy work grew 
rapidly in her deft hands. 

Toward evening she started out for a walk, but uttered an 
exclamation of surprise as she saw the flower-borders were 
bright with verbenas, heliotrope, geraniums, and other bed- 
ding plants. Roger’s buggy stood near, containing two large 
empty boxes and he was just raking the beds smooth once 
more in order to finish his task. 

” Why, Mr. Atwood 1” she cried, “ it has long seemed to 
me that a good fairy was at work around the house, but this 
is a master-stroke.” 

‘ * If you are pleased I am well repaid, ' ' he replied, the 
color deepening on his sunburnt cheeks. 

“ If I am pleased ?' ' she repeated in surprise, and with a 
faint answering color. “ Why, all will be pleased, especially 
your mother and Susan. ’ ' 

“ No doubt, but I thought these would look more like 
what you have been accustomed to.” 

“ Really, Mr. Atwood, I hope you have not put yourself 
to all this trouble on my account.” 

‘ ‘ I have not put myself to any trouble. But you are in 
trouble, Miss Jocelyn, and perhaps these flowers may enliven 
you a little.” 

“ I did not expect such kindness, such thoughtfulness. 1 
do not see that I am entitled to so much consideration,” she 
said hesitatingly, at the same time fixing on him a penetrat- 
ing glance. 

Although he was much embarrassed, his clear black eyes 
met hers without wavering, and he asked, after a moment 
“ Could you not accept it if it were given freely ?” 

‘ * I scarcely understand you,’ ’ she replied in some perplexity. 

“ Nor do I understand you, Miss Jocelyn. I wish I did, 
for then I might do more for you.” 


NEITHER BOY NOR MAN 


83 


“ No, Mr. Atwood/' she answered gravely, ** you do not 
understand me. Experience has made me immeasurably 
older than you are." 

“Very possibly," he admitted, with a short, embarrassed 
/augh. “ My former self-assurance and complacency are all 
gone." 

“ Self-reliance and self-restraint are better than self-assur- 
ance," she remarked with a smile. 

“ Miss Jocelyn," he began, with something like impetu- 
osity, “ I would give all the world if I could become your 
friend. You could do so much for me." 

“ Mr. Atwood," said Mildred, with a laugh that was mixed 
with annoyance, “ you are imposed upon by your fancy, and 
are imagining absurd things, I fear. But you are good- 
hearted, and I shall be a little frank with you. We are in 
trouble. Business reverses have overtaken my father, and we 
are poor, and may be much poorer. I may be a working- 
woman the rest of my days ; so, for Heaven's sake, do not 
make a heroine out of me. That would be too cruel a satire 
on my prosaic lot." 

“ You do not understand me at all, and perhaps I scarcely 
understand myself. If you think my head is filled with sen- 
timental nonsense, time will prove .you mistaken. I have a 
will of my own, I can assure you, and a way of seeing what 
is to be seen. I have seen a great deal since I’ve known 
you. A new and larger world has been revealed to me, and 
I mean to do something in it worthy of a man. I can nevei 
go on with my old life, and I will not, ' ' he continued, almost 
passionately. ‘ ‘ I was an animal. I was a conceited fool. 
I'm very crude and unformed now, and may seem to you 
very ridiculous ; but crudity is not absurdity, undeveloped 
strength is not weakness. An awakening mind may be very 
awkward, but give me time and you will not be ashamed of 
my friendship." 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


8 * 

He had ceased leaning against a tree that grew near the 
roadway, and at some distance from the house. In his strong 
feeling he forgot his embarrassment, and assumed an attitude 
so full of unconscious power that he inspired a dawning of 
respect ; for, while he seemed a little beside himself, there 
was a method in his madness which suggested that she, as 
well as the young man, might eventually discover that he was 
not of common clay and predestined to be commonplace. 
But she said, in all sincerity, “ Mr. Atwood, I’m sure I 
wish you twice the success you crave in life, and I' ve no reason 
to think you overrate your power to achieve it ; but you 
greatly overrate me. It would be no condescension on my 
part to give you my friendship ; and no doubt if you attain 
much of the success you covet you will be ready enough to 
forget my existence. What induces you to think that a sim- 
ple girl like me can help you ? It seems to me that you aire 
vague and visionary, which perhaps is natural, since you say 
you are just awaking,’ ’ she concluded, with a little smiling 
sarcasm. 

“ You are unjust both to yourself and to me,” he replied 
firmly, ‘ ‘ and I think I can prove it. If I shall ever have any 
power in the world it will be in seeing clearly what is before 
me. I have seldom been away from this country town, and 
yet as soon as I saw you with a mind free from prejudice ] 
recognized your superiority. I brought the belle of Forest' 
ville and placed her by your side, and I could think of noth- 
ing but brazen instruments until I left her loudness at hei 
father’s door. I would not go near her again if there were 
not another woman in the world. I saw at a glance chat she 
was earthenware beside you. ’ ’ 

Mildred now could not forbear laughing openly. If you 
lose your illusions so rapidly,” she said, “ my turn will come 
soon, and I shall be china beside some fine specimen of 
majolica.” 


NEITHER BO V NOR MAN. S$ 

“You may laugh at me, but you will one day find I am 
sincere, and not altogether a fool. ' ' 

Oh, I’ m ready to admit that, even now. But you are alto* 
gether mistaken in thinking I can help you. Indeed I scarcely 
see how I can help myself. It is a very poor proof of your keen 
discernment to associate me with your kindling ambition. ' ’ 

Then why had you the power to kindle it ? Why do I 
think my best thoughts in your presence ? Why do I speak 
to you now as I never dreamed I could speak ? You are 
giving purpose and direction to my life, whether you wish it 
or not, whether you care or not. You may always be in- 
different to the fact, still it was your hand that wakened me. 
I admit I’m rather dazed as yet. You may think I’m talk- 
ing to you with the frankness — perhaps the rashness — of a 
boy, since you are ‘ immeasurably older, ’ but the time is not 
very distant when I shall take my course with the strength 
and resolution of a man/' 

“ I should be sorry to be the very innocent cause of lead- 
ing you into thorny paths. I truly think you will find more 
happiness here in your quiet country life." 

His only answer was an impatient gesture. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps, ’ ’ she resumed, ‘ ‘ if you knew more of the world 
you would fear it more. I'm sure I fear it, and with good 
reason. ’ ' 

“ I do not fear the world at all," he replied. “ I would 
fear to lose your esteem and respect far more, and, distant as 
you are from me, I shall yet win them both. ’ ' 

“ Mr. Atwood, I suppose I have as much vanity as most 
girls, but you make me blush. You are indeed dazed, for 
you appear to take me for a melodramatic heroine/' 

“ Pardon me, I do not. I've been to the theatre occasion- 
ally, but you are not at all theatrical. You are not like the 
heroines of the novels I’ve read, and I suppose I’ve read too 
many of them." 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


S6 


44 1 fear you have," she remarked dryly. “Pray, the®, 
what am I like ?" 

“ And I may seem to you a hero of the dime style ; but 
wait, don’t decide yet. What are you like ? You are gentle, 
like your mother. You are exceedingly fond of all' that's 
pretty and refined, so much so that you tried to introduce a 
little grace into our meagre, angular farm-house life — " 

* ‘ Thanks for your aid, ’ ’ interrupted Mildred, laughing. 
“ I must admit that you have good eyes." 

“ You shrink," he resumed, “ from all that's ugly, vulgar, 
or coarse in life. You are an unhappy exile in our plain 
home." 

‘ ‘ All which goes to prove what an ordinary and unheroic 
nature I have. You will soar far beyond me, Mr. Atwood, 
for you have portrayed a very weak character — one that is in 
Vove with the niceties of life, with mere prettiness." 

“You are still laughing at me, but I’m in earnest ; and 
if you mean what you say, you understand yourself less than 
you do me. Why will you not go to the hotel occasionally ? 
Because with all your gentleness you are too proud to run the 
slightest risk of patronage and pity from those who knew you 
in your more fortunate days. Why do you remain in your 
little hot room so much of the time ? I don’t know ; but if 
you will permit a guess, you are working. Every day you 
grow less content to sit still in helpless weakness. You are 
far braver than I, for I do not fear the world in the least ; 
but, no matter how much you feared it, you would do your 
best to the last, and never yield to anything in it that was low, 
base, or mean. Oh, you are very gentle, very delicate, and 
you will be misunderstood ; but you have the strongest 
strength there is — a kind of strength that will carry you 
through everything, though it cost you dear. ' ’ 

‘ ‘ And what may that be ?' ' she asked, looking at him now 
in genuine wonder. 


NEITHER BOY NOR MAN. 


*7 

“ I can't explain exactly what I mean. It is something 
I ve seen in mother, plain and simple as she is. It’s a kind 
of enduring steadfastness ; it’s a patient faithfulness. I 
should know just where to find mother, and just what to 
expect from her, nnder all possible circumstances. I should 
never expect to see you very different from what you are, no 
matter what happened. You often have the same look or 
expression that she has ; and it means to me that you would 
do the best you could, although discouraged and almost hope- 
less. Very few soldiers will fight when they know the battle 
is going against them. You would, as long as you could 
move a finger. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Atwood, what has put all this into your head ? This 
seems very strange language from you. ’ ’ 

“ It is not so strange as it seems. It comes from the gift 
on which I base my hope of success in life. I see clearly 
and vividly what is before me, and draw my conclusions. If 
I see the antlers of a stag above some bushes, it is not neces- 
sary to see the whole animal to know he is there, and what 
kind of a creature he is. I’m not a scholar, Miss Jocelyn, 
but you must not think I do not know anything because I 
work in the corn or the hay field all day. We have long 
winters up here, and I’ve studied some and read a great deal 
more. There are but few books in the village library that I 
have not read more or less thoroughly, and some of them 
many times. Because I was a careless, conceited fellow a few 
weeks since, it does not follow that I’m an ignoramus.” 

Mildred was decidedly puzzled. She could not account 
for the change in him ; and she did not like to think of 
that to which his words and feelings pointed. He asked for 
friendship, but she strongly doubted whecher such a placid 
regard would long satisfy him. Her chief impulse was to 
escape, for the bare thought of words of love from him or any 
one except Vinton Arnold was intensely repugnant. As she 


88 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


glanced around, seeking in what direction she might take 
her flight, she saw a gentleman coming rapidly toward the 
house. After a second’ a hesitation she rushed toward hiis, 
trying, “ Papa, papa, yoi are welcome 1” 


A COUNCIL, 


CHAPTER X. 

A COUNCIL. 

R OGER saw Miss Jocelyn rush into the arms of a tall, 
florid gentleman, whose dark eyes grew moist at the 
almost passionate warmth of his daughter’s greeting. To 
Mildred her father’s unexpected coming was thrice welcome, 
for in addition to her peculiarly strong affection for him, his 
presence ended an interview not at all agreeable, and promised 
relief from further unwelcome attentions on the part of Roger. 
Almost in the moment of meeting, she resolved to persuade 
him that his family would be happier with him in the city. 
This had been her feeling from the first, but now she was 
wholly bent on leaving the farm-house ; for with her large! 
experience and womanly intuition she read in Roger’s frank 
and still half-boyish face the foreshadowing of an unwelcome 
regard which she understood better than he did. 

While his manner for a few weeks past, and especially his 
words during their recent interview, made it clear that he was 
not the rough, awkward rustic she had first imagined him to 
be, he still seemed very crude and angular. In spite of her 
love for Vinton Arnold, which had not abated in the least, 
he had ceased to be her ideal man. Nevertheless, his refined 
elegance, his quiet self-restraint, his knowledge of the niceties 
and proprieties of the world to which she felt she belonged 
by right, did combine to produce an ideal in her mind of 
which she was but half conscious, and beside which Rogei 
appeared in a repulsive light. She shrank with instinctive 


9 o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


distaste from his very strength and vehemence, and feared 
that she would never be safe from interviews like the one just 
described, and from awkward, half - concealed gallantries. 
Even the flowers he had set out became odious, for they rep- 
resented a sentiment the very thought of which inspired 
aversion. 

A coquette can soon destroy the strong instinct of sacred- 
ness and exclusiveness with which an unperverted girl guards 
her heart from all save the one who seems to have the divine 
right and unexplained power to pass all barriers. Even while 
fancy free, unwelcome advances are resented almost as wrongs 
and intrusions by the natural woman ; but after a real, or even 
an ideal image has taken possession of the heart and imagi- 
nation, repugnance is often the sole reward of other unfortu- 
nate suitors, and this dislike usually will be felt and mani- 
fested in a proportion corresponding with the obtrusiveness of 
the attentions, their sincerity, and the want of tact with which 
they are offered. 

To that degree, therefore, that Roger was in earnest, Mil- 
dred shrank from him, and she feared that he would not-- 
indeed, from his antecedents could not — know how to hide 
his emotions. His words had so startled her that, in her sur- 
prise and annoyance, she imagined him in a condition of 
semi-ambitious and semi-amative ebullition, and she dreaded 
to think what strange irruptions might ensue. It would hare 
been the impulse of many to make the immature youth a 
source of transient amusement, but with a sensitive delicacy 
she shrank from him altogether, and wished to get away as 
soon as possible. Pressing upon her was the sad, practical 
question of a thwarted and impoverished life — impoverished 
to her in the dreariest sense — and it was intolerable that one 
who seemed so remote from her sphere should come and ask 
that, from her bruised and empty heart, she should give all 
sorts of melodramatic sentiment in response to his crude, 


A COUNCIL. 


9 1 

ambitious impulses, which were yet as blind as the mythical 
god himself. 

Had she seen that Roger meant friendship only when he 
asked for friendship, she would not have been so prejudiced 
against him ; but the fact that this “ great boy” was half con- 
sciously extending his hand for a gift which now she could 
not bestow on the best and greatest, since it was gone from 
her beyond recall, appeared grotesque, and such a disagreeable 
outcome of her changed fortunes that she was almost tempted 
to hate him. There are some questions on which women 
scarcely reason — they only feel intensely. 

Mildred, therefore, was heartily glad that Rogei did not 
wait to be introduced to her father, and that he kept himself 
alcof from the reunited family during the evening. She also 
was pleased that they were not joined by the Atwoods at the 
supper-table. That this considerate delicacy was due to the 
“ young barbarian's” suggestion she did not dream, but gave 
good-hearted but not very sensitive Mrs. Atwood all the credit 
As for poor Roger, his quick insight, his power to guess 
something of people’s thoughts and feelings from the ex- 
pression of their faces, brought but little present comfort or 
promise for the future. 

“ I made a bad impression at the start,” he muttered, 
“ and it will be long before she loses it, if she ever does. 
She shrinks from me as from something coarse and rough. 
She feels that 1 don’ t belong to her world at all. In fact, 
her father’s fine bearing, his erect, elegant carriage make me 
feel as if I were but a country lout in very truth.” 

The reception given to Mr. Jocelyn satisfied Mrs. Atwood 
thoroughly that his prolonged absence did not result from 
any alienation from his family. They overwhelmed him with 
caresses, and either Fred or Minnie could scarcely be kept 
out of his arms a moment. 

“ Fanny,” he said to his wife, ‘ ‘ I almost made a vow that I 


9 2 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


would not come here until I had secured a position that 
would give you all the comforts of life, if not at once its lux- 
uries ; but such positions are occupied, and when one becomes 
vacant they are filled by relatives of the firm, or by those who 
have stronger claims than I can present Still my friends are 
working for me, and I have the prospect of employment 
where the compensation will be small at first, but if I can 
draw a considerable Southern trade it will be increased 
rapidly.’ ’ 

And yet he sighed while revealing this hopeful outlook, 
and Mildred noticed that he sighed more than once during the 
evening, in spite of the torrent of affectionate welcome which 
almost swept him away. 

After Belle and the younger children were sleeping, the 
husband and wife with Mildred talked late over their pros- 
pects. Mr. Jocelyn suggested that they should remain in the 
country, and even that they should rent a small cottage in 
Forestville or elsewhere, but his gentle wife soon proved that 
on some occasions she could be decided. 

“ No, Martin,” she said, with the quiet emphasis which 
reveals a purpose not to be combated, “ one thing is settled 
— there must be no more separation. I have suffered too 
much during these last few weeks ever to listen again tp such 
an arrangement. Now that you are with us once more, I 
learn that the ache in my heart was caused not so much by 
losses and the prospect of poverty as by loneliness and the 
feeling that you were left to struggle by yourself. It's my 
place to be with you, and I am willing to live anywhere and 
in any way. I can see that I might have aided you in pro- 
viding against this evil time, but it seems now that I thought 
only of what we wanted for each day as it came, and the 
trouble was that we all got just what we wanted. Here is 
the result. Oh, I’ve thought it over through long sleepless 
nights till my heart ached with a pain that I hope none at 


A COUNCIL. 


93 


you will ever know. But to sit idly here and wait while 
you are trying to retrieve my folly is a greater punishment 
than I can endure. Give me something to do which will be 
of help to you, and I will do it gladly, even though it be in 
two attic rooms. ’ ’ 

“ Mamma’s right,” added Mildred earnestly. “ Papa, 
you must find a place for us in New York — a place within 
our means. Let us begin life right this time, and I believe 
God will bless and prosper us. It won’t be many days before 
Belle and I will find something to do.” 

Mr. Jocelyn sighed more deeply than ever, and, indeed, 
appeared so overcome for a few moments that he could not 
speak. At last he faltered, “ I have all of a Southern man’s 
pride, and it’s more bitter than death to me that my wife and 
daughters must work for their bread.” 

“ Papa,” exclaimed Mildred, “ would it not be infinitely 
more bitter to us all to eat the bread of charity ? I shall pre- 
tend to no unnatural heroism, nor say I like toil and poverty. 
On the contrary, I think I shrink from such things more 
than most girls do. But I don’ t propose to sit down and wring 
my hands. I can put them to a better use. We must just 
put away all talk of pride and sentiment, and remember only 
our poverty and self-respect. As Christian and sensible 
people we are bound to accept of our life and make the bes-t 
of it. You and mother both know how much this change has 
cost me,” she concluded, with a few half-stifled sobs, “ and 
if I am willing to enter on a cheerful, patient effort to make 
the best of life as it is, I think all the rest might, too. If we 
give way to despondency we are lost. Let us be together 
again, and pull together as one. 

‘ ‘ The idea of Nan and the children coming back to the 
city in August !” said Mr. Jocelyn dejectedly. “ You don’t 
either of you realize what you are talking about. W$ should 
have to go into a tenement-house,” 


94 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Martin, I do realize it,” replied his wife earnestly. 
“ The country is doing me no good — indeed I'm failing in 
health. Nothing does us good when we are unhappy and 
anxious. Find me two rooms in a tenement-house if we 
cannot afford more, and let us be together as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

‘‘Well,” said Mr. Jocelyn, after a long breath, “with 
such a wife and such children to work for a man ought to be 
able to do great things ; but it’s much the same as it was in 
the army — if one lost his place in the ranks he was hustled 
about in everybody’s way, and if weak and disabled he was 
left to his fate. The world goes right on and over you if you 
don’t stand aside. I know you’ve suffered, Nan, and you 
know that if I had my wish you would never have a care or a 
pain ; but God knows I’ve suffered too. After you all were 
gone and my duties to my former partners ceased, I began to 
learn from experience how difficult it is in these cursed times 
to get a foothold, and I became almost sleepless from anxiety. 
Then set in that villainous neuralgia, which always strikes a 
man when he’ s down, and for a week or more it seemed that 
I should almost lose my reason.” 

“ Oh, Martin, Martin !” his wife exclaimed reproachfully, 
“ and you did not let us know !” 

‘ ‘ Why should I ? It would only have added to your bur- 
den, and would not have helped me. I was glad you knew 
nothing about it.’' 

“ This is another proof that we must be together,” said his 
wife, her eyes filling with tears. “ How did you come to get 
better?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, the doctor gave me something that made me sleep, 
and I seldom have neuralgia now. ’ ’ 

“ Come, papa,” cried Mildred, as she put her arms around 
his neck and leaned her face against his, “ there are thousands 
worse off than we are, and thousands more have retrieved far 


A COUNCIL. 


95 


worse disasters. Now take courage ; we'll all stand by you, 
and we 11 all help you. We will one day have a prettier home 
than ever, and it will be all our own, so that no one can drive 
us from it ;" and with hope springing up in her heart she 
tried to inspire hope and courage in theirs. 

“ Oh, Millie," he said, taking her on his lap, “ when you 
coax and pet one you are irresistible. We will begin again, 
and win back all and more than we have lost." 

Then, partly to amuse her father and mother, but more 
for the purpose of hastening their departure, Mildred told 
them of Roger’s peculiar mood, and her conscience smote 
her a little as she caricatured rather than characterized the 
youth. Mrs. Jocelyn, in her kindliness, took his part, and 
said, “ Millie, you are satirical and unjust I’m sure he’s 
a well-meaning young man. ’ ' 

“The dear little mother!" cried Mildred, laughing; 
“ when she can’t think of anything else good to say of a 
person, she assures us that he is ‘ well-meaning. ’ Life may 
bring me many misfortunes, but I shall never marry what 
mamma calls ‘ a well-meaning man.’ " 

“ But, Millie, I'm sure he’s been very good and kind to 
us all, and he’s kind to his mother and sister, and he seem* 
steady — " 

“Well, mamma, admitting it all, what follows?" asked 
Mildred. 

“ It follows that we had better go away," said Mrs. Joce- 
lyn, with her low, sweet laagh, that had been rarely heard of 
late ; “ bull don’t like you to be unjust to the young fellow. 
After all, he’s not so very much to blame, Millie,’’ sh« 
added, with a little nod. “ If I wore he I fear I might be in 
the same fix." 

“ Oh, papa, now we must go ; foi if mamma’s sympathies 
are once aroused in behalf of this ‘ steady, well-meaning 
young man ’ — there ! I will talk no more wonsense to-night. 


9 6 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


although I often find nonsense a sort of life-preserver that 
keeps me from sinking. I admit, mamma, that I have been 
unjust to Mr. Atwood. He’s far more clever than I ever 
imagined him to be, but he’s so different” — she finished the 
sentence with a little repellent gesture that her mother well 
understood. 

They were all comforted, and far more hopeful from their 
frank interchange of thought and feeling, and both father 
and mother breathed a fervent ‘ ‘ God bless you, Millie, ’ ’ as 
they separated, long past midnight. 

“ God will bless us,” said the young girl, “ if we will just 
simply try to do what is right and best every day. The bless- 
ing will come on doing, not waiting.” 

She had not been in her room very long before hearing the 
crunching of gravel under the wheels of Roger’s buggy. 
With a smile she thought, “ He must have found a more 
sympathizing ear and heart than mine to have remained out 
sn late.” 


A SHADOW. 


97 


CHAPTER XI. 

A SHADOW. 

'* TV /|" RS. ATWOOD,” said Mildred the next morning, 
1VX “ I want to thank you for your kindness in giving 
us our supper alone with papa the first evening of his arrival ; 
but you need not put yourself to any extra trouble to-day. ” 

“ Roger is the one to thank,” replied Mrs. Atwood. 
“ He’s grown so different, so considerate like, that I scarcely 
know him any more than I do the old place he’s so fixed up. 
He says he’s going to paint the house after the summer 
work slacks off. I don’t see what’s come over him, but I 
like the change very much.’ 

Mildred flushed slightly, but said, with some constraint, 
k ‘ Please thank him then from papa and mamma, but do not 
let us make you further trouble. We shall all return to the 
city soon, and then you will have easier times every way.” 

‘‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Jocelyn, for we shall miss 
you all very much. You’ve done us good in more ways 
than one.” 

Roger did not appear at breakfast. “ A young horse 
strayed from the pasture, and Roger is out looking for him,” 
his mother explained when Mrs. Jocelyn asked after him. 

Although not a member of any church, Mr. Jocelyn had 
great respect for his wife and daughter’s faith, and accompa- 
nied them to service that morning very readily Roger ap- 
peared in time to take Belle, as usual, but she found him so 
taciturn and preoccupied that she whispered to Mildred, 
“ You've spoiled him for me. He sits staring like an owl ins 


9 8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


the sunlight, and seeing just about as much. You mght tc 
be ashamed of yourself to make him so glum. I intend to 
have a dozen beaux, and to keep them all jolly.” 

Mildred was obliged to admit to herself that the young 
fellow was very undemonstrative at dinner, and that he did 
not exhibit the rusticity that she half hoped to see. She 
gained the impression that he was observing her father very 
closely, and that no remark of his escaped him. " He has 
the eyes of a lynx, ' * she thought, with a frown. Still, apart 
from a certain annoyance at his deep interest in her and all 
relating to her, she was rather pleased at the impression which 
such a man as her father must make on one so unsophisticat- 
ed. Mr. Jocelyn was a finished man of the world, and his 
large experience left its impress on all that he said and did. 
Although a little courtly in manner, he was so kindly and 
frank in nature that his superiority was not at all oppressive, 
and with true Southern bonhomie he made the farmer’s family 
quite at ease, leading them to speak freely of their rural 
affairs. Susan soon lost all sense of restraint and began to 
banter her brother. 

“You must have had a very affecting time in making up 
with Amelia Stone to have stayed out so late, ' ’ she remarked 
sotto voce . 

“ I've not seen Amelia Stone since the evening she was 
here,” he answered dryly. 

“ Indeed ! what other charmer then tied you to her apron- 
strings so tightly ? You are very fickle.” 

“ Now you've hit it,” he answered, with a slight flush. 
“ I was so undecided that I drove by every door, and was 
not tied at all. ’ ' 

Belle “ made eyes” at Mildred, as much as to say, “ It's 
you who are distracting him. ' ' 

“ Next time,” Sue continued, “ I think it would be well 
to make up your mind before Sunday morning. ' ’ 


A SHADOW. 


99 


“ My mind is made up/’ replied Roger — Belle looked at 
Mildred with an expression of horror, to her intense annoy- 
ance — ‘ ‘ I shall trouble no one, ’ ’ he added, quietly. 

Belle now gave such a great sigh of relief that he turned 
upon her too swift a glance to leave time for disguise. He 
smiled a little bitterly, and then began talking in an off-hand 
way to Mr. Jocelyn about the hotel a few miles distant, say- 
ing that it had filled up very rapidly of late. As they rose 
trom the table he remarked, hesitatingly, “ My horse and 
wagon are at your service this afternoon or evening if you 
would like to take a drive/' 

Mr. Jocelyn was about to accept, but Mildred trod signifi- 
cantly on his foot. Therefore he thanked Roger cordially, 
and said he would spend a quiet day with his family. 

“ I don’t wish to be under the slightest obligations to 
him,” explained Mildred when they were alone; ‘‘and 
Belle,” she warned, “ you must stop your nonsense at once. 
I won’t endure another trace of it.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, indeed ! I didn’ t know you were so touchy about 
him, ’ ’ cried the girl. “ Is it for his sake or your own that 
you are so careful ? You’re stupid not to let him amuse you, 
since you’ve spoiled him for me.” 

Her sister made no reply, but gave the giddy child a 
glance that quieted her at once. When Mildred was aroused 
her power over others was difficult to explain, for, gentle as 
she was, her will at times seemed irresistible. 

Roger did not need to be told in so many words that his 
overtures of ‘ ‘ friendship’ ’ had been practically declined. 
Her tones, her polite, but distant manner revealed the truth 
clearly. He was sorely wounded, but so far from being 
disheartened, his purpose to win her recognition was only 
intensified. 

‘ ‘ I can at least compel her respect and prove myself her 
equal, ’ ’ he thought, and instead of lounging or sleeping away 


IOO 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


the afternoon, as had been his custom, he took a book and 
read steadily for several hours. At last he left his room to 
aid his father in the evening labors of the farm-yard, and in 
doing so would have to pass near Mr. Jocelyn, who, with his 
family, was seated under a wide-spreading tree. The gentle- 
man evidently was in a very genial mood , he was caressing 
his children, flattering his wife and Mildred, and rallying Belle 
after her own frolicsome humor. Roger thought, as be 
looked at them a few moments through the kitchen window, 
that he had never seen a happier family, and with a sigh wished 
that it was his privilege to join them without being thought 
an intruder. Mildred’s reserve, however, formed an impass- 
able barrier, and he was hastening by with downcast eyes, 
when, to his surprise and the young girl’s evident astonish- 
ment, Mr. Jocelyn arose and said, “ Ah, Mr. Atwood, we’re 
glad to see you. Won’t you join our little party? I want 
to thank you again for offering me your horse and carriage, 
but I assure you that a quiet hour like this with one’s family 
after long separation is happiness enough. Still, as a South- 
ern man, I appreciate courtesy, and am always ready to 
respond to it in like spirit. Moreover, it gives me peculiar 
pleasure to see a Northern man developing traits which, if 
they were general, would make the two great sections of our 
land one in truth as well as in name. ’ ’ 

Roger gave Mildred a quick, questioning glance, and saw 
that she was regarding her father with much perplexity. 

“Mr. Jocelyn," he said quietly, “the little courtesy of 
which you speak has cost me nothing, and if it had it would 
not be worth the words you bestow upon it. ’ ’ 

“ I do not think of the act itself so much as the spirit, the 
disposition it indicates,’’ resumed Mr. Jocelyn in a manner 
that was courtly and pronounced, but otherwise natural and 
quiet enough. “ I do not judge superficially, but look past 
apparent trifles to the character they suggest. Moreover, my 


A SHADOW. 


iof 


wife informs me that you have been very polite to her, and 
very kind to Belle and the children, whom you have often 
taken out to drive without any compensation whatever. 
Since you will not make a business matter of such things, I 
wish to repay you in the coin which gentlemen can always 
receive— that of friendly acknowledgments.” 

‘ ‘ Then please consider me amply repaid, ’ ’ and with a 
smile and a bow he was about to retire. 

“ Do not hasten away, sir,” Mr. Jocelyn began again. 
“ On this day of rest your duties cannot be pressing. I want 
to assure you further of the pleasure I have in finding a 
young man who, so far from being rendered callous and 
material by hard and rather homely work, is alive to all refin- 
ing influences. The changes in this place for the better since 
I was here, and those pretty flowers yonder, all prove that you 
have an eye for the beautiful as well as the practical. My 
daughter Mildred also informs me that you are cherishing 
hopes and ambitions that will eventually enlarge your sphere 
of life and take you out into the great world. ’ ’ 

Hitherto Roger s eyes had been fixed keenly and unwaver- 
ingly on Mr. Jocelyn’s urbane countenance, as if he would 
detect the cause of such unlooked-for words, but at the 
mention of Mildred’s name his brow and even neck was 
suffused. ‘‘She must have spoken of me kindly,” he 
thought, ‘‘or her father would not be so friendly.” But 
when a swift glance around revealed that Mrs. Jocelyn was 
looking at her husband in perplexity, that Mildred was not 
even trying tb conceal her vexation and amazement, and that 
Belle had stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to prevent 
laughter, a spark of anger glittered in his eyes. His first 
thought was that Mr. Jocelyn was indulging in unexpected 
irony at his expense, and the ready youth whose social habits 
had inured him to much chaffing was able to reply, although 
a little stiffly and awkwardly, “ I suppose most young men 


102 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


have ambitious hopes of doing something in the world, and 
yet that does not prevent mine from seeming absurd. At any 
rate, it' s clear that I had better reveal them hereafter by deeds 
rather than words, ’ ’ and with a very slight bow he strode 
away, but not so quickly that he failed to hear Mildred’s 
voice in the exclamation, '‘Oh, papa! how could you ?" 
and then followed a paroxysm of laughter from Belle. 

Roger was deeply incensed, for he believed that Mr. Joce- 
lyn and Belle were deliberately ridiculing him. That Mil- 
dred had repeated his conversation was evident, but her man- 
ner showed that she did not expect his words to be used 
against him so openly, and that she had no part in the cruel 
sport. The worst he could charge against her was exclusive 
pride ; and he did Mrs. Jocelyn the justice to see that she 
was pained by the whole affair. His face grew rigid as he 
finished his work and he muttered, “ They shall see that my 
pride is equal to theirs ; I won’t go out of my way a hair’s 
breadth for them, ’ ’ and he walked in to supper as if he were 
at home and had an absolute right to be there. He had 
been at the table but a few moments, however, before the 
aspect of the Jocelyn family began to puzzle him exceedingly. 
Belle appeared as if she had been crying ; Mrs. Jocelyn 
looked perplexed and worried, and in Mildred’s eyes there 
were anxiety and trouble. Mr. Jocelyn had not lost his 
serenity in the least, but his aspect now was grave, and his 
manner more courtly than ever. He did not seem inclined 
to say very much, however, and had an abstracted, dreamy 
look as if his thoughts were far away. When he did speak, 
Roger thought that Mildred looked apprehensive, as if fearing 
that he might again say something embarrassing, but his 
words were quiet and measured, betraying no excitement. 
The expression of his face, however, seemed unnatural to 
Roger’ s close yet furtive scrutiny. An hour before his eyes 
had been bright and dilated, and his countenance full of 


A SHADOW. 


103 


animation ; now all the light and cheerfulness were fading, 
and the man seemed to grow older and graver by moments. 
Was the dusky pallor stealing across his features caused by 
the shadows of evening ? Roger thought not, but a resentful 
glance from Mildred warned him to curb his curiosity. 

He was curious, but not in a vulgar or prying way, and 
his anger was all gone. He was sure that something was 
amiss with Mr. Jocelyn, and that his family also was dis- 
turbed and anxious. There had been none of the incohe- 
rency and excitement of a man who had drank too much, but 
only a slight exaggeration of the genial traits manifested at the 
dinner-table followed by a quietude and abstraction that were 
not natural. Mental aberrations, even though slight and 
temporary, are instinctively felt by those who are sound 
and normal in mind. Still Roger would have charged Mr. 
Jocelyn’s words and manner to the peculiarities of a stranger, 
had not his family been perplexed and troubled also. 
“ There’s something wrong about him,” he said to himself 
as he rose from the table ; “he lacks balance, or he’s not 
well. I half believe that the time will come when that young 
girl will be the stay and support of the whole family. You 
cannot prevent my friendliness, Miss Jocelyn, any more than 
you can stop the sun from shining, and some day it will melt 
all your reserve and coldness.” He took his volume of his- 
tory out on the sward near the porch, resolving to see the 
end of the domestic drama. His mother had told him dur- 
ing the day that their 4 4 boarders’ ’ would soon depart. He 
had made no response whatever, but his sinking spirits re- 
vealed to him that in some way his life had become involved 
with that of the girl now so distant and repellent. 

He did not turn many leaves, but he sat with the book in 
his lap until long after nightfall. The domestic drama ap- 
parently had a very prosaic ending. Mr. Jocelyn and his 
family returned for a time to their seats under the tree, bm 


104 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


all except the little children were apparently under some 
constraint. The latter soon grew sleepy, and Mrs. Jocelyn 
took them in to bed. Belle was not long in following them, 
darting an ireful glance at Roger in passing, to which he re- 
sponded by a rather mocking smile. “We were having a 
lovely time till you came, you old marplot, ” she muttered 
under her breath. 

Mr. Jocelyn grew more and more quiet until his head sank 
on his breast, and it was with difficulty that Mildred aroused 
him sufficiently to urge his retiring. At last he took his 
daughter’s arm and entered the house as if in a dream. The 
young girl’s face was downcast and averted. As they passed 
between the youth and the still glowing west they cast a faint 
shadow upon him. Though by no means imaginative, he 
noted the shadow and thought about it. It seemed that it 
still rested on him after they were gone, and that it might 
never pass away. His was not a dreamy, fanciful nature, 
that could create a score of improbable contingencies, but his 
shrewd, strong sense was quick to recognize traces of weak- 
ness and untrustworthiness in those he met, and the im- 
pression grew upon him that Mr. Jocelyn was not a well- 
balanced man. “ If he fails her, I will not,” he murmured. 
Then with a short laugh he continued, “ How is it that I 
am ready to admit such a far-reaching claim from one who 
repels and dislikes me ? I don' t know, and I don’ t care. 
She has waked me up ; she has the power of calling into 
action every faculty I have. Already, I scarcely know my- 
self. I never lived before, and I feel that I can become a 
man — perhaps a great man — if I follow this impulse, and I 
shall follow it. ’ ’ 

Soon all were sleeping, and mother and daughter were alone. 

“ Mamma,” said Mildred, in a low, troubled tone, “ it 
seemed to me that papa acted very strangely this afternoon 
and evening. Can he be well ?” 


A SHADOW. 


io 5 


“ Oh, Millie,” cried the loving, anxious wife, “ I fear he 
is not well at all ; and no wonder, when we think of the long 
strain he has been under. Haven’ t you noticed that his ap- 
petite is very poor ? to-night he scarcely ate a mouthful. He 
has just been trying to keep up ever since he came, and this 
afternoon he made unusual effort ; reaction of course fol- 
lowed, and at last he was so weary and troubled that he could 
not hide his feelings from us. ’ ’ 

“ I suppose you take the right view,” said Mildred hesi- 
tatingly, “but papa has not seemed the same this afternoon 
as at other times when tired and worried. His gayety was a 
little extravagant, and so it might naturally be if it were 
forced. But I can’t understand his speaking to young Mr. 
Atwood as he did. Papa never showed such a lack of tact 
or delicacy before. I would not dare tell him things if he 
spoke of them afterward so inopportunely. I felt as if I 
could sink into the ground. And when Belle — who can't 
help seeing everything in a ridiculous light — began to laugh 
he turned and spoke to her as he has never spoken to any of 
us before. And yet he did not seem angry, but his gravity 
was more oppressive than any amount of natural anger.” 

“ Well, Millie, your father is very kind-hearted, and, like 
all Southern men, very sensitive to kindness and courtesy. I 
suppose he thought that you and Belle had not treated Roger 
well, and that he ought to make amends. The real expla- 
nation is that he is overstrained and unhappy, and so cannot 
act like himself. ’ ’ 

“ I do hope he is not going to be ill,” faltered Mildred. 
“ Such a strange lethargy came over him after you left us. 
Oh, the day is ending horribly, and it leaves a weight of 
foreboding on my mind. I wish we could get away to-mor- 
row, for I feel that Roger Atwood is watching us, and that 
nothing escapes him. I know that papa’s manner seemed 
strange to him as well as to us, and I almost hate him for his 


IO 6 WITHOUT A HOME. 

obtrusive and prying interest. Why can’t he see that he’i 
nothing to us, nor we to him, and let us alone V ’ 

She often recalled these words in after years. 

The wife went to her room and found that her husband 
was sleeping quietly. Returning, she said, more cheerily, 
“ I think papa will be like himself after a goodnight’s sleep, 
and there’s every promise now that he’ll get it ; so don’t look 
on the dark side, Millie, nor worry about that young man. 
He don’t mean to be obtrusive, and I must say that I think 
he behaves very well considering. With troubles like ours, 
why think of such a transient annoyance ? If I only knew 
just how I could help your father I would not think about 
much else.” 

It would have been well indeed if she could have known, 
for she would have taken from his pocketbook a small 
syringe and a bottle of Magendie’s solution of morphia ; she 
would have entreated him upon her knees, she would have 
bound him by the strongest oaths to die rather than to use it 
again. The secret of all that was peculiar and unnatural in 
his conduct can be explained by the fact that early in the 
afternoon he went apart for a moment, and with a little in- 
nocent-locking instrument injected into his arm the amount 
of the faLrt drug which he believed he could enjoy without 
Vetrayiiv bunself. 


VIEWLESS FETTERS \ 


107 


CHAPTER XII. 

VIEWLESS FETTERS. 

LTHOUGH Mr. Jocelyn had retired so early and 



1 \ slept heavily until an hour that at the farm-house 
was late, the reader knows that his sleep was not the natural 
repose which brings freshness and elasticity. His wife and 
Mildred, however, did not know this, and his languor, con- 
tinued drowsiness, and depression, which even much effort 
could not disguise, confirmed their dread of an impending 
illness. He saw their anxiety, and took advantage of their 
fears to hide his weakness. 

“ Yes,” he sighed, in response to their gentle solicitude as 
he pushed away his almost un tasted breakfast, “ I suppose 
my health has been impaired by worry of mind and the heat 
in town. Pm better, though, than I have been. I don’t see 
how you are going to endure the city.” 

They both assured him, however, that they would not even 
consider any other arrangement except that already agreed 
upon, and urged that he should return to town that very day, 
his wife adding that just as soon as he had secured rooms 
within their means she would join him and prepare them for 
the family. 

“ Oh, Nan,” he again said dejectedly, “it’s a cruel fate 
which compels me to take you to a tenement-house in 
August. ’ ’ 

“ It would be far more cruel to leave me here,” his wife 
answered earnestly. “ I could be happy anywhere if you 


10 8 WITHOUT A HOME. 

were your old natural self once more. Millie and I can both 
see that struggling alone and brooding by yourself over your 
troubles is not good for you,” and her gentle but determined 
purpose carried the day. 

Mr. Jocelyn was then directed to a somewhat distant field, 
where he found Roger, who readily agreed to take him to the 
steamboat landing in the afternoon. Lifting his eyes from 
his work a few moments afterward, the young man saw that 
his visitor, instead of returning to the house, had sat down 
under a clump of trees and had buried his face in his hands. 

“ There’s a screw loose about that man,” he muttered. 
“ He’s too uneven. Yesterday at dinner he was the most 
perfect gentleman ever I saw ; in the afternoon he had a 
fit of pompous hilarity and condescension ; then came ab- 
straction, as if his mind had stepped out for a time ; and now, 
after twelve hours of sleep, instead of feeling like a lark, he 
looks as though he might attend his own funeral before night, 
and walks as if his feet were lead. He mopes there under 
the trees when he has but a few more hours with his family. 
If I had such a wife and such a daughter as he has, I’d cut a 
swath for them, no matter what stood in the way.” 

But Roger’s censure was slight compared with that which 
Mr. Jocelyn visited upon himself ; and in order to under- 
stand his feelings and conduct, it will be necessary to relate 
some experiences which occurred after the departure of his 
family to the country. Throughout the entire winter he had 
been under a severe strain of business anxiety, and then had 
come the culminating scenes of failure, loss of income, and 
enforced and unhappy separation. His natural depression 
had been so increased by the meagre prospect of finding em- 
ployment which would yield his family an adequate support, 
that even his increased and more frequent indulgence in his 
morphia powders failed to give sufficient hopefulness and 
eowrage, while at the same time they began to produce somt 


VIEWLESS FETTERS. 


109 

serious disorders in his system. There is a class of diseases 
which rarely fails to attack one whose system is reduced and 
enfeebled, and neuralgia began to bind across his forehead a 
daily pressure of pain that at last became intolerable. Ordi- 
nary remedies not giving speedy relief, his physician injected 
into his arm a few drops of the solution of morphia. Thus 
far he had never used the drug in solution hypodermically, 
and he was much surprised by the agreeable effects of a very 
much smaller quantity than he had been accustomed to use 
on any one occasion, and his morphia hunger — already firmly 
established — immediately suggested that the little syringe 
might become a far more potent agent than the powders. 
Therefore he induced the physician to give him an order for 
the instrument, and to explain more fully the methods of its 
use, saying that attacks of neuralgia were generally rather 
obstinate in his case, and that he had neither the time no 
the means to seek his services very often. 

The physician’s few words of warning made but slight in 
pression upon the infatuated man at the time. Mr. Joco 
lyn remembered only that he had an intolerable pain in 
his head and a heavy weight upon his heart. Many a 
time during the long civil war he had smilingly led charges 
wherein the chances of death were greater than those of 
life, but neither then nor since had he ever displayed any 
great aptitude for quiet endurance and self-control. Now every 
day was precious, and he felt he could not give himself yip to 
pain and patient waiting until the disease could be conquered 
in a slow, legitimate way, when by a wound no more than a 
pin -prick he could obtain courage, happiness, and prospects 
illimitable. 

Having obtained the syringe and a vial of the solution of 
morphia, he injected into his arm a much larger quantity 
than the physician would have dreamed of employing. Not 
only did the unendurable anguish pass away within a few brief 


no 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


moments, but the world was transfigured ; life’s grim outlook 
became full of the richest promise, and discouragement and 
dread vanished utterly. So far from fearing that he could 
not provide for his family, he was sure that he could win for 
them abundance and luxury. A dozen avenues to fortune 
opened before him, and he felt that his only task was to 
choose, believing that in some indefinite yet easily discerned 
way he would achieve more than falls to the lot of most men 
to accomplish. Instead of a long, sleepless night like those 
which had preceded, his waking dreams ended in quiet and 
equally pleasant visions — then oblivion, which did not pass 
away until the morning sun was shining. But with the new 
day came a new access of pain and gloom, and the aid of the 
magic little instrument was invoked once more. Again 
within a few moments the potent drug produced a tranquil 
elysium and a transformed world of grand possibilities. With 
a vigor which seemed boundless, and hopes which repeated 
disappointments could not dampen, he continued his quest 
for employment until in the declining day his spirits and 
energy ebbed as strangely as they had risen in the morning, 
and after another night of dreams and stupor he awoke ii> 
torture. The powerful stimulant enabled him to repeat the 
experiences of the previous day, and for two or three weeks 
he lived in the fatal but fascinating opium paradise, gradually 
increasing the amount of morphia that his system, dulled by 
habit, demanded. In the mean time, by the lavish use of 
quinine he gradually banished his neuralgia with its attendant 
pain. 

It is well known to those familiar with the character of 
opium that its effects are greatly enhanced at first by any de- 
cided change in the method of its use ; also that its most 
powerful and immediate influences can be produced solely by 
the hypodermic needle, since by means of it the stimulant 
is introduced at once into the system. When taken in 


VIEWLESS FETTERS. 


Ill 


powders, the glow, the serenity, and exaltation come on 
more slowly, and more gradually pass away, causing alterna- 
tions of moods far less noticeable than those produced by 
immediate injection of the poison. Therefore it was not at 
all strange that Mr. Jocelyn’s family should remain in com- 
plete ignorance of the habit which was enslaving him, or that 
his behavior failed to excite the faintest suspicion of the 
threatening influences at work. There is no vice so secret as 
that of the opium slave’s, none that is in its earlier stages more 
easily and generally concealed from those who are nearest 
and dearest. The changes produced in Mr. Jocelyn were 
very gradual, and seeing him daily even his loving wife did 
not note them. 

During the period of unnatural exaltation that has 
been described he had accepted agencies which prom- 
ised thousands if he could sell millions of dollars’ worth 
of goods, and after the subtle morphia had infused itself 
through his system nothing seemed easier ; but dreams are 
not realities, and after grand hopes unfulfilled, and futile 
efforts, he would sink into a despondency from which nothing 
could lift him save the little syringe that he carried hidden 
next to his heart. As its magic never failed him, he went on 
for a time, blind to the consequences. At last he began to 
grow more alarmed than ever before at the ascendency of the 
drug and his dependence upon it, but when he tried to dis- 
continue its use he found that he had been living so long 
under the influence of a powerful stimulant that without it he 
sank like a stone. Then came the usual compromise of all 
weak souls — he would gradually decrease the amount and 
then the frequency of its use ; but, as is generally the case, he 
put off the beginning of sturdy self-denial until the morrow, 
and almost every day he poisoned his system with that which 
also poisoned and demoralized his soul. He dimly saw his 
danger, but did not realize it. With the fatuity of all self' 


1 1 2 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


indulgent natures he thought the day would come when, 
with better prospects and health renewed, he would throw 
away the spell which bound him and become a free man, 
but day after day passed and he did not ; his appetite 
began to flag and his energy also ; he would sit dreaming foi 
hours when he might have been at work. At best his agen- 
cies would give him but a scanty revenue, although pushed 
with extraordinary skill and vigor. As it was, they yielded 
him little more than personal support, and he began to en- 
tertain the hope that if he could only obtain regular employ- 
ment he could then resume his old regular habits. There- 
fore he had agreed to accept a position which was little more 
than a foothold, and yet if he would go to work with a deter- 
mined and patient industry he might, by means of it, win 
more than he had lost 

Could he do this ? The Sunday he had just spent with 
his family had awakened him as never before to a sense of his 
bondage. Even with the society of those he loved to enliven 
and sustain he had felt that he could not get through the day 
without the help of the stimulant upon which he had grown so 
dependent. While at church it was not the clergyman's voice 
he heard, but a low yet imperious and incessant cry foi 
opium. As he rode home, smiling upon his wife and chil- 
dren, and looking at the beautiful and diversified country, 
between them and the landscape he ever saw a little brass 
instrument gauged at four or five times the amount that the 
physician had at first inserted in his arm. At the dinner table 
he had spoken courteously and well on many subjects, and 
yet ever uppermost in his mind was one constant thought — 
opium. The little diabolical thing itself seemed alive in his 
pocket, and made its faint yet potent solicitation against his 
heart. At last he had muttered, “ I will just take a little of 
the cursed stuff, and then I must begin to break myself in 
dead earnest " 


VIEWLESS FETTERS . 


113 

The reader knows what followed. Moreover, he was led to 
fear that the alternations of moods caused by injections of 
morphia would be so great that they could not fail to excite 
remark. Although the new day brought every motive which 
can influence a man, Mr. Jocelyn found the path to freedom 
so steep and difficult that the ascent seemed well-nigh im- 
possible. His muscles were relaxed, his whole frame so 
weary and limp that he even dreaded the effort required to 
return to the house where his family was waiting for him. 
But the physical oppression was nothing to that which weighed 
upon his mind. The sense of misery and discouragement 
was paralyzing, and he was fairly appalled by his lack of 
energy. And yet he felt his need of power and resolution as 
keenly as he realized his feebleness. He knew that he had 
appeared unnatural to his wife and children, and that while 
they now ascribed his behavior to the long strain he had been 
under, their loving and charitable blindness could not last if 
he often exhibited before them such variable moods and 
conditions. Therefore he felt that he must overcome the 
habit before they were together permanently, for to permit 
them to discover his vile weakness in this time of their great 
need would be a mortal wound to his pride. All his man- 
hood revolted at the bare thought. Their trust, their love, 
their dependence and unrepining courage in meeting poverty 
and privation with him imposed the strongest and most 
sacred of obligations, and his high .sense of honor — which 
hitnerto had been his religion — made failure to meet these 
obligations the most awful disaster that could overwhelm him. 
The means of escaping from his wretchedness and dejection 
— from the horrible lassitude of body and soul — could be 
grasped in a moment, and the temptation to use them and 
become within a few minutes a strong, sanguine, courageous 
man was almost irresistible ; but he knew well that such an 
abrupt change from the heavy, dull-eyed condition in which 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


*14 

they had seen him at the breakfast table could not fail to 
arouse suspicion ; and should they once discern his crime — 
for crime he now regarded it — he feared his self-respect would 
be so destroyed that he would never have the pride and 
strength for the struggle now clearly foreseen ; therefore, with 
the instinct of self-preservation, and from the impulse of all 
his native and long-fostered Southern pride, he resolved that 
they must never know his degradation. He must rally his 
shattered forces, spend the few hours before his departure with 
his family in a way t© lull all fears and surmises ; then when 
away by himself he would tug at his chain until he broke it. 
Summoning the whole strength of his will he returned to the 
house, and succeeded fairly well. 

Could he break his chain ? The coming pages of this 
book will reveal his struggle and its termination. Alas ! it 
is no fancy sketch, but a record of human experience that is 
becoming sadly frequent The hunger for opium had grown 
upon Mr. Jocelyn by its almost constant use for nearly two 
years. During weeks of pain he had almost lived upon the 
drug, saturating his system with it. It had come to him like 
an angel of light, lifting him on buoyant pinions out of suf- 
fering and despondency, but the light was fading from the 
wings and brow of this strong spirit, and it was already seeu 
to be an angel of darkness. 

At this time Mr. Jocelyn might have escaped from his 
thraldom, but would he ? The world is full of people who 
are proud and self-respecting in the extreme, who are hon- 
orable and virtuous, good and kindly at heart, but whose 
wills are nerveless, though they may go safely through life 
without suspecting this truth ; but if they fall under the in- 
fluence of an evil habit — if they pass under this mightiest and 
darkest of all spells, opium hunger — they may learn their 
weakness in despair. 

Mr. Jocelyn, however, had no thought of despair ; he was 


VIEWLESS FETTERS. 


AI 5 

only surprised, humiliated, and somewhat alarmed ; he was 
satisfied that he must drift no longer, and in perfect sincerity 
resolved to make the most of his brief separation from his 
family, hoping that with a physician’s advice he could speedily 
overcome his morbid craving and distressing need. He left 
the farm-house with the resolution that he would never touch 
the drug again, believing that before a week expired the 
horrible depression, both mental and physical, would so far 
pass away as to excite no further suspicion. 

For an hour he rode at Roger’s side, rigid, taciturn, and 
pale ; for except when heated by exercise his wonted ruddy 
color was passing away from the effects of the poison. Roger 
drove around to the large hotel, which was not much out of 
their way, and said, “ Mr. Jocelyn, will you please take the 
lines a few moments ? I have an errand here, but it won’ t 
keep me long.” 

Having transacted his business he stood in the office door 
watching a young man who sauntered toward him. The 
stranger was almost as tall as himself, but much slighter. 
While his carriage was easy and graceful, it was marked by 
an air of lassitude and weariness, and his step lacked firmness. 
A heavy mustache relieved his face from effeminacy, but his 
large, dark eyes were dull and apathetic. Suddenly they 
lighted up with recognition ; he hesitated, and then hastily 
advanced toward Mr. Jocelyn, but his steps were speedily 
checked, for the moment the gentleman recognized him he 
bowed very coldly and turned haughtily away. The young 
man flushed deeply, stood still a moment in irresolution, and 
then with a swift glance into Roger’s interested face turned 
and quickly disappeared. Before Roger could resume his 
place in the wagon the proprietor of the hotel came out and 
called him back ; something had been forgotten. 

This interruption was fatal to Mr. Jocelyn’s good resolu- 
tions. Vinton Arnold, who had won his daughter s affec^ 


n6 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


tion, but who seemingly had not the manhood to be faithful 
in her adversity, was the one whom he had repulsed, and the 
thought of his wealth and luxury, while he was on his way 
to seek a home in a tenement for his beautiful child, so 
maddened him that he drove recklessly to an adjacent shed, 
which shielded him from observation, snatched out his fatal 
syringe, and in a moment the poison was diffusing itself 
through all his system. He had returned again before 
Roger, who had been detained some moments, reappeared, 
but now his heavy eyes were bright and fiery, and his tongue 
unloosed. 

“ Did you see that young man to whom I refused to 
speak V ’ he asked as they drove away. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, he’s a white-livered scoundrel. He’s a type of 
your Northern gentlemen. A Southern man would starve 
rather than act so pusillanimously. Of course I’m not going 
to talk of family secrets, or say anything not befitting a high- 
toned gentleman, but I taught that snob how a man of honor 
regards his cowardice and cold-bloodedness. He was one of 
our fair-weather friends, who promptly disappeared when the 
sky clouded. Here he is, dawdling around a high-priced 
hotel, while I’m on my way to seek rooms in a tenement for 
those to whom he is not worthy to speak ; but the time shall 
come, and speedily, too, when even on the base plane of 
money — the sole claim of his proud family for consideration 
— we shall meet him and scorn him as his superiors. I 
have plans, business prospects — ” and he launched forth 
into such a vague, wild statement of his projects that Roger 
looked at him in silent amazement, half doubting his sanity. 

In his haste Mr. Jocelyn had not carefully gauged his 
syringe, and the over-amount of morphia thrown into his 
system so stimulated him that his words appeared exceedingly 
irrational to the young man, whose judgment was based on 


VIEWLESS FETTERS. 


117 

unusual shrewdness and common-sense. He was greatly 
puzzled by the sudden change in his companion. It was 
evident that he had not been drinking, for his breath was 
untainted and his utterance was natural. But his face was 
flushed, and he seemed possessed by a strange, unbalanced 
mental exaltation which led him to speak as no sensible man 
ought in any circumstances, and certainly not to a stranger. 
Roger therefore interrupted him, saying, “ I shall respect 
your confidence, Mr. Jocelyn, and will never repeat what you 
have said. Please let me suggest, however, that it would be 
wise not to speak so frankly to others, since they might take 
advantage of you. ’ ’ 

“ Please let me assure you,” resumed Mr. Jocelyn, with 
the most impressive dignity, ‘ ‘ that I am a man of the world, 
and that I have seen a great deal of the world. I can read 
men as you would read a book. If you were not trust- 
worthy I should know it at a glance. Did you not see how 
I treated that young jackanapes ? His wealth and elegance 
did not impose upon me in the least. You are trustworthy. 
You have a large, aspiring mind, and yet you know your 
station ; you would not dream of presuming. What does 
it signiiy that we are poor for the moment ? True Southern 
blood is in our veins, and I have a dozen plans for securing 
large wealth. When that day comes I shall remember those 
who basely turned their backs on us in our brief obscurity 
and thus he rambled on, while Roger listened coldly and in 
silence. 

‘ ‘ There is method in his madness, 5 ’ he said to himself ; 
“ he is not so daft but that he hints broadly I must keep my 
station and not be ‘ presuming. ’ His proud daughter hints 
as much still more plainly. Well, we’ll see whose dreams 
find the larger fulfilment — his or mine / 5 

By the time they reached the landing the sun was low in 
the west, and his companion had become comparatively silent. 


n8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


dreamy, and abstracted. Half an hour later Roger went on 
board of the boat with some solicitude to see how he was 
faring. Mr. Jocelyn started out of what appeared a deep 
reverie as Roger addressed him, and said, after a moment’s 
thought, “ Please say to my family that you left me well, and 
safely on my way,” and with a quiet and rather distant bow 
he resumed his absorbing thoughts. 

The steamer moved away, but instead of returning directly 
home Roger went back to the hotel. Even amid the hallu- 
cinations of opium the father had too much instinctive 
delicacy to mention Mildred’s name or to make any reference 
to Arnold’s intentions ; but the quick-witted fellow gained 
the impression that the elegant young stranger had been a 
welcome and favored suitor in the past better days, and he 
had a consuming wish to see and study the kind of man that 
he surmised had been pleasing to Mildred. As he rode 
along, pity for the girl took the place of resentment. “ Not 
our plain little farm-house, but the fashionable hotel, is the 
place where she would feel the most at home, ’ ’ he thought. 

And yet she is going to a tenement-house ! There, too, 
she’ll stay, I fear, for all that her father will ever do for her. 
If he’s not off his balance, I never saw a man that was.” 


A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS. 119 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS. 

R OGER sat out on the dusky piazza of the hotel, look- 
ing into the large parlor through open windows 
which came to the floor, bent on making the most of such 
glimpses as he could obtain of the world to which he felt that 
Mildred belonged by right. He saw clearly that she would 
appear well and at home amid such surroundings. A young 
and elegantly dressed woman crossed the wide apartment, and 
he muttered, ‘ ‘ Y our carriage is very fine and fashionable, no 
doubt, but Miss Jocelyn would have added grace and nature 
to your regulation gait. ’ ’ He watched the groups at the card- 
tables with a curious interest, and the bobbing heads of 
gossiping dowagers and matrons ; he compared the remark- 
able ‘ ‘ make up, ’ ’ as he phrased it, of some of them with 
the unredeemed plainness of his mother’s Sunday gown. 
“ Neither the one nor the other is in good taste,” he 
thought. “ Mrs. Jocelyn dresses as I intend my mother shall 
some day.” He coolly criticised a score or more of young 
men and women who were chatting, promenading, flitting 
through the open windows out upon the piazza and back 
again into the light, as a small stringed orchestra struck into 
a lively galop or the latest waltz. He saw a general muster- 
ing of the younger guests, even down to the boys and girls, 
for the Lancers, and followed one and another that caught his 
eye through the mazy intricacies, making little gestures of 
disgust at those who seemed outre and peculiar in manner and 
appearance, and regarding with the closest observation such 


120 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


as exhibited a happy mean between a certain rusticity and 
awkwardness with which he was well acquainted, and a con- 
ventional artificiality which was to him all the more unnatural 
and absurd because his perception was not dulled by 
familiarity with society’s passing whims. 

The young stranger whom Mr. Jocelyn had repulsed, and 
who was the real object of his quest, did not appear among 
the pleasure-seekers, nor could he discover him on the piazza, 
in the billiard-room, or in other places of resort. At last in 
much disappointment he returned to his seat, from which he 
commanded a view of the parlor ; and scarcely had he done 
so before the one he sought mounted the steps near him as if 
returning from a stroll in the hotel grounds, threw away a 
cigar, and entered an open window with the same graceful, 
listless saunter witnessed in the afternoon. He crossed the 
wide apartment with as much ease and nonchalance as if it 
had been empty, and sat down on a sofa by a somewhat stout 
and very elegantly apparelled gentlewoman. 

Roger never thought of accounting for the intensity of hi* 
interest in this stranger — the young rarely analyze their 
feelings — but, obedient to an impulse to learn this man’s 
power to win the favor of one so unapproachable by himself, 
he scanned with keenest scrutiny everything in his appearance 
and manner, and sought eagerly to gauge his character. 

He felt instinctively that the “ cold-blooded snob,” as Mr. 
Jocelyn had characterized him, was of the very opposite type 
to his own. His graceful saunter, which, nevertheless, 
possessed a certain quiet dignity, suggested a burdensome 
leisure and an utter lack of purpose to go anywhere or do 
anything. He dropped on the sofa rather than sat down. 
The lady at his side spoke rather decidedly to him, and he 
answered briefly without even looking at her. By and by she 
spoke again, more energetically ; he then slowly arose, ap> 
proached a young woman sitting near, who in response to 


A SCENE BENEA TH THE HEMLOCKS. 


1 2 I 


something he said sprang up with alacrity, and they glided 
away in the waltz with an ease and grace scarcely equalled by 
the others upon the floor. After a tew moments they circled 
around very near Roger’s post ot observation, and he was 
able to scan both the features and expression of the man 
whom he felt inclined to hate. But he was disarmed and 
perplexed, for the stranger showed nc more pleasure or ani- 
mation than would a fallen leaf that was swept here and there 
by varying eddies of wind. He kept time and step with per- 
fect accuracy, but evidently from such complete familiarity 
with the form that he gave it not a thought. He danced as 
easily as a bird flies, avoiding the others without appearing 
to notice them. No color came from the exercise, no light 
kindled in his face. His expression was not blase or cynical, 
but weary and dejected ; the melancholy in his large brown 
eyes was all the more striking from contrast with the music, 
the lighted room, and an amusement suggesting gayety. 
Pale, utterly unresponsive to the brilliant and mirthful scenes, 
he glided ghost-like here and there, and before very long 
seated his companion by the elderly woman whose urgency 
had led to his automaton-like performance. Then with a 
slight bow he passed through a window near and disappeared. 
The two ladies spoke together for a few moments and 
seemed annoyed, and Roger now noted such a resemblance 
between them as to suggest that they were mother and 
daughter. 

He had seen sufficient to satisfy him, and he went away 
muttering, “ There isn’t enough of him to hate ; he’s but 
the shadow of a man. She fancy him ! I couldn’t have 
believed it ; I can’t account for it, unless he’s very gifted in 
mind or very different when with her. This must be true, 
and he would be a mummy indeed if she couldn’t wake him 
up.” 

Roger rode home, however, ill at ease. “ He hasn’t for- 


122 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


gotten her if he has given her up on account of her poverty/’ 
he thought. “ He could see as well as I that there was no 
one there who could compare with her ; but he mopes in- 
stead of trying to win her. If he can dance, why can’ t he 
work? I’ve no reason to complain, however, and I thank 
my stars that I have muscle and a will. In the mean time I 
shall come up here and study your tricks of manner, my ele- 
gant nonentity. I believe in force. Force moves the world 
and carries a man through it ; but I now see that it should be 
well-managed and well-mannered force. Miss Jocelyn com- 
pares me with you, and I seem to her uncouth, unfinished, 
and crude in the extreme. Litheness and grace need not 
take an atom from my strength, and the time shall come 
when I will not fear comparisons. I’ll win her yet with your 
own weapons.” 

Roger’s dreams proved that his sympathies with the mel- 
ancholy stranger were not very deep, and that his idea of 
the survival of the fittest was the survival of the strongest. 
His human nature at that time was of the old Saxon type, 
that went directly for what it wanted, without much thought 
or sentiment for those weak enough to lose. 

Although it was rather late before he reached home, he 
found his mother, Mrs. Jocelyn, and Mildred waiting for him 
in the sitting-room. 

‘ ‘ What kept you so ?’ ’ Mrs. Atwood exclaimed. 

‘ ‘ I stopped a while at the hotel on my return, ’ ’ he replied. 

“Did my husband send any message?” Mrs. Jocelyn 
asked, with a solicitude she could not disguise. 

‘ ‘ He told me to say that I had left him well, and safely on 
his way to the city. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Did — did he seem well when you left him ?’ ’ the anxious 
wife persisted. 

‘ ‘ Quite as well as he did yesterday, I think, ’ ’ was the reply. 

Mr. Atwood,” said Mildred, in a tone that startled him 


A SCENE BENE ATH THE HEMLOCKS. 12 3 

a little, and he saw she was looking at him as if she would 
read his thoughts, “ did my father truly appear well when 
you parted from him ?’ * 

Roger’ s eyes fell before hers, but he replied firmly, “ I left 
him sitting quietly on the steamboat's deck, and when I 
asked him if he had any message for his family, he said the 
words I have just repeated. He seemed naturally depressed 
at leaving you all. If he were not well he did not say any- 
thing about it and with a bow he passed up to his room. 

“ Mother,” said Mildred, when they were alone, “ was it 
mere diffidence, or why was it, that he could not look me in 
the eyes ? I wonder if he is concealing anything. It was 
in the afternoon and evening that papa was unlike himself 
yesterday. I wish I really knew whether or not that young 
man is hiding anything, fori have an impression that he is.” 

“Oh, it was diffidence, Millie. He would have no motive 
in hiding the truth from us. I can see that he is both fasci- 
nated by you and afraid of you — poor fellow !” 

“ A few weeks in the cornfield and a few smiles from the 
girls hereabouts will banish all his nonsense concerning me. 
I don’ t give him a thought except that his absurd feelings 
annoy me. Oh, mamma, you understand me. What he 
would like to offer is such a grotesque parody on that which 
I hoped for, on what I imagined I possessed, that it makes 
me sick. Oh, oh !” she sobbed, “ I must give it all up. Mr. 
Arnold acts as if I were dead ; and practically I am to him, 
although he may sigh and mope a little, perhaps. There, 
I’m wronging him ; I know I wrong him. How can I forget 
his white, deathlike face and look of mortal pain. Oh that 
he had this young fellow’s muscle and courage ! I do not 
care for his money ; I would be content with him in one 
bare room But as it is I fear, I fear and the poor child 
buried her face in her mother’s lap, and cried away some of 
her weight of foreboding. 


124 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Millie, darling/' faltered her mother, “ God knows I’d 
shield your heart with my own if I could, but I don’t know 
how to help you. You are too much like me. Your love 
is your life, and you can’t stop loving just because it would 
be wise and thrifty to do so. I think of you almost as much 
as I do of Martin, and I daily pray the merciful Saviour, who 
was ‘ tempted in all points like as we are/ to sustain and 
comfort you. I don’ t see how I can help you in any other 
way, for my own heart shows me just how you suffer.” 

“ There, little mother,” said Mildred, raising her head 
and wiping her eyes, “ I’ve had my cry, and feel the better 
for it. I’m going to help you and papa and be brave. I’m 
glad I’m like you. I’m glad I’m a true Southern girl, and 
that I can love as you loved ; and I would despise myself if 
I could invest my heart and reinvest it like so much stock. 
Such a woman is cold-blooded and unnatural, and you are 
the dearest little mother and wife that ever breathed. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, Millie, Millie, if I had only foreseen and guarded 
against this evil day !” 

‘ ‘ Come, dear mamma, don’ t always be blaming yourself 
for what you did not foresee. You are eager to do your 
best now, and that is all God or man can ask of us. These 
clouds will pass away some time, and then the sunshine will 
be all the brighter. ’ ’ 

The next few days of waiting and uncertainty were a severer 
ordeal to Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred than ever. Mr. Jocelyn, 
bent on gaining time, kept putting them off. His new duties 
upon which he had entered, he wrote, left him only the even- 
ing hours for his quest of rooms, and he had not succeeded 
in finding any that were suitable. Thus they expected some- 
thing definite by every mail, but each day brought renewed 
disappointment. At last Mildred wrote that she would come 
down herself if he did not decide upon something at once. 

The morning after this letter was dispatched the young 


A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS. 125 

girl took her work out under some wide-boughed hemlocks 
that stood beside the quiet country road, along which a farmer 
occasionally jogged to the village beyond, but which at that 
hour was usually quite deserted. Fred and Minnie were with 
her, and amused themselves by building little log huts with 
the dry sticks thickly scattered around. 

To Roger, who was cradling oats in an adjacent field, 
they made a picture which would always repeat itself when- 
ever he passed that clump of hemlocks ; and, as he cut his way 
down the long slope toward them, under the midsummer 
sun, he paused a second after each stroke to look with 
wistful gaze at one now rarely absent from his mental vision. 
She was too sad and preoccupied to give him a thought, or 
even to note who the reaper was. From her shady retreat 
she could see him and other men at work here and there, and 
she only envied their definite and fairly rewarded toil, and 
their simple yet assured home-life, while she was working so 
blindly, and facing, in the mean time, a world of uncertainty. 
Roger had been very unobtrusive since her father's departure, 
and she half consciously gave him credit for this when she 
thought about him at all, which was but seldom. He had 
imagined that she had grown less distant and reserved, and 
once or twice, when he had shown some little kindness to the 
children, she had smiled upon him. He was a hunter of no 
mean repute in that region, and was famous for his skill in 
following shy and scarce game. He had resolved to bring 
the principles of his woodcraft to bear upon Mildred, and to 
make his future approaches so cautiously as not to alarm her 
in the least ; therefore he won the children's favor more 
thoroughly than ever, but not in an officious way. He found 
Belle moping the evening after her father's departure, and he 
gave her a swift drive in his buggy, which little attention 
completely disarmed the warm-hearted girl and became the 
basis of a fast-ripening frienasmp 


126 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ You need not put on such distant airs," she had said tc 
Mildred ; “he never mentions your name any more. ' ’ But 
when he asked Mrs. Jocelyn to take a drive with him she had 
declined very kindly, for she feared that he might speak to 
her of her daughter in an embarrassing way. Over Belle, 
Mildred had little control in such matters, but as far as she 
and her mother were concerned she determined that he should 
have no encouragement whatever ; for, although he made no 
further efforts either to shun or obtain her society, and had 
become quite as reserved as herself, he unconsciously, yet 
very clearly, revealed his state of mind to her womanly in- 
tuition. 

“ There is one thing queer about Roger Atwood/' said 
Belle, joining her sister under the hemlocks ; “he now 
scarcely ever speaks of himself. I suppose he thinks I’d be 
silly enough to go and tell everything as you did. ’ ’ 

“ What do you talk about then ?” asked Mildred, with a 
half smile. 

‘ ‘ Oh, you are a little curious, are you ? perhaps a little 
jealous, too, that he was so very easily cured of his admiration 
for you. If it were any secret, I wouldn't tell you. We 
talk about what we see, and it seems to me he sees every- 
thing. If a bird flies across the road he will point out its 
peculiarities, and he knows so much about the trees and 
bushes and wild flowers and the little creatures in the woods, 
how they live, and all that. He says a man's a fool that 
doesn’ t see all that’ s going on around him. Sometimes he 
makes me ache from laughing over his funny descriptions of 
the queer characters that live about here. But what interests 
me most is his accounts of the people at the hotel. Oh, I 
do wish mother would let me go there with him some even- 
ing ! He is there nearly every night, and it’s as good as 
a play to hear him take off the affected, snobbish ones. He 


A SCENE BENE A TH THE HEMLOCKS. 


127 


has caught the English drawl and the yeh know ’ of some 
young fellows to perfection/ * 

“ He is a queer fellow/ * mused Mildred. “ I wonder 
what he goes there for ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, Roger Atwood is no fool, I can tell you. He 
knows country society to perfection, and he would not be 
long in understanding Fifth Avenue noodledom just as well. 
He detects sham people and sham ways as quickly as you 
could, and delights in ridiculing them. He says there’s a 
ghost of a man up there which interests him exceedingly, but 
that it is such an extremely well-behaved, good-mannered 
ghost that it is tolerated without remark, and that is all he 
will say about it, although I have often questioned him. I 
can’ t think who or what he means. ” 

Mildred looked up with a sudden access of interest, and 
then became silent and abstracted. 

“ Since the children are quiet here,” continued Belle, “I’ll 
go back to the house and finish a story in which the hero 
and heroine are sentimental geese and blind as bats. They 
misunderstand each other so foolishly t hut I’d like to bob 
their empty heads together,” and awaj she. went, humming 
a gay song, with as little thought for tb/, morrow as the birds 
in the fields around her. 

While Roger paused a moment to vipe the perspiration 
from his brow, the rustling of the grai\i ceased, and he heard 
the footfalls of a horse in the adjacent road. With a start he 
saw riding by the stranger who had been the object of his 
continued scrutiny at the hotel. The young man restrained 
to a walk the rather restless horse he bestrode, and seemed 
musing deeply under the shadow of a broad-brimmed Panama 
hat. He took no notice of Roger, and passing slowly on en- 
tered the shadow of the hemlocks, when an exclamation 
caused him to raise his head. A second later he sprang from 
his horse, threw the bridle over the limb of a tree, and seized 


128 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Mildred's hand with an eagerness which proved that she had 
indeed the power to “ wake him up." 

Roger was too distant to see just how she greeted her un- 
looked-for friend of other days, but thought she appeared so 
startled that she leaned against a tree for support. He saw, 
however, that the "ghost of a man" was now flesh and 
blood in his earnestness, and that he retained her hand in 
both of his own while speaking rapidly. Before very long, 
however, the horse became so impatient that he sud- 
denly jerked his bridle loose, wheeled, and came galloping 
up the road toward Roger, who, after a moment’s hesitation, 
cleared the low stone wall at a bound and stood in the road 
awaiting him. Mildred’s companion made a gesture of an- 
noyance, and then said, with a shrug, " Let the beast go. 
I’m well content to remain here." When they saw Roger’s 
purpose, however, they stood watching for the outcome of 
his effort. 

As Arnold — for he it was — saw the horse, with broken and 
flying reins, thundering apparently right upon the motionless 
form of a man, he exclaimed, " By Jove ! but that's a brave 
fellow." 

The vicious brute soon seemed so nearly upon the rash 
youth that Mildred gave a slight scream of terror, but a sec- 
ond later she saw him spring lightly aside, catch one of the 
flying reins, hold on for a few yards, half dragged, half run- 
ning, and then the animal yielded to a master. A cloud of 
dust obscured them momentarily ; then the country-bred 
athlete vaulted lightly into the saddle and came trotting 
sharply toward them, riding like a centaur. She was enraged 
at herself that her face should grow scarlet under his brief 
glance from one to the other, but without a word he sprang 
lightly down and began to fasten the horse securely to a tree 
—an act scarcely necessary, for the animal appeared com- 
pletely subdued. 


A SCENE BENE A TH THE HEMLOCKS. 


129 


4< By Jove ! my man, that was neatly done," said Arnold. 
“ Here’s a bank-note for your trouble." 

“ The fact that I’ve caught your horse does not prove me 
a hostler, ’ ’ Roger replied brusquely, without looking at the 
speaker 

Arnold now recognized the young man whom he had seen 
with Mr. Jocelyn, and also at the hotel several times subse- 
quently. He had learned his name, and therefore began, 
“ Oh, I beg pardon ; this is Mr. Atwood ;" but before he 
could say more a covered barouche came rapidly down the 
hill from the opposite direction, turned with the angle of the 
road, and passed into the shade of the hemlocks. Arnold had 
become very pale the moment he saw it, and in its occupant 
Roger recognized the woman whom he had seen at the hotel, 
and whom he had learned to be the mother of the listless 
dancer. A brief glance showed him that Mildred knew her 
also. The lady sharply ordered her coachman to stop, and 
after a brief but freezing look into Mildred’s hot face she 
said, in a meaning tone, “ Vinton, I will esteem it a favor if 
you will accompany me on my drive." 

“ I w*U join you presently," he said irresolutely. 

‘ ‘ 1 will wait politely then until you have concluded your 
interview, ’ ’ the gentlewoman remarked coldly, leaning back 
in her carriage. 

Hei look, tone, and action stung Mildred to the very 
quick. Gentle and retiring usually, she was capable of a very 
decided and even an aggressive course under great provoca- 
tion. For a moment her warm Southern blood boiled at 
Mrs. Arnold’s implication that she was so eager to capture 
her wealthy son that it was not prudent to leave them alone 
together a moment With decision and the dignity of con- 
scious innocence she said, “ Good-morning, Mr. Arnold ;" 
then taking little Minnie’s hand and calling Fred she led the 
way toward the house. It happened that the only path of 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


130 

egress led her by the carriage, and the manner in which its 
occupant ignored her presence was so intolerable in its injus- 
tice that she paused, and, fixing her <dear, indignant eyes 
on the flushed, proud face before her, asked, in tones never 
forgotten by those who heard them, “ Mrs. Arnold, wherein 
have I wronged you or yours ?’ * 

The lady was silent and a little embarrassed. 

“ I know, and you might know, ’ ’ Mildred continued, 44 if 
you chose, that you cannot charge me with one unwomanly 
act, but your look and manner toward me are both un- 
womanly and unchristian. You insult me in my poverty and 
misfortune. Without the shadow of right or reason, you 
cruelly wound one who was wounded already and she 
was about to pass on. 

“ M ther, as you are a woman, do not let her go without 
a word of respect and kindness/ ’ cried her son, in a hoarse, 
stifled voice. 

“ Miss Jocelyn/' began Mrs. Arnold in a constrained tone, 
“ I mean you no disrespect. Nevertheless — " 

44 Nevertheless 1” exclaimed Arnold, wrought to frenzy. 
41 Great God ! are you going to qualify that grudging sen- 
tence ?” He struck his hand to his forehead, reeled, and fell 
prone upon the earth. In a moment Mildred knelt beside 
him, and Roger saw that she loved him with her whole 
strong, womanly soul. 

“ Bring water, bring brandy ; mother will give it to you," 
she said to him in a low voice, and he dashed off to obey. 

Mrs. Arnold hastily descended from the carriage and felt 
her son’s pulse with much solicitude. “ He has only 
fainted/’ she said. “ He is apt to have such attacks when 
overwrought. It’s a part of his disease. Miss Jocelyn, you 
see he is a reed that must be supported, not leaned upon/' 
she added, looking straight into the young girl’s troubled 
eye*. “ \ mean 7 m* kindness as truly as I mean kindness to 


A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS, t$i 

him. He will soon be better. He has often been in this 
condition ever since he was a child. With this knowledge 
you will understand me better. Thomas’' — to the coach- 
man — “ lift him into the carriage. He will soon revive," 
she continued to Mildred, “ and at the hotel he shall have 
the best of care. Believe me, I feel for you both, but I 
know what is right and best. ' ’ 

The coachman did as he was directed, and they drove 
rapidly away. 

Mildred put her hand to her side, and then, with pale ai*d 
downcast face, led the wondering children toward the house. 
She soon met Roger returning, and running like a deer. 

“ They have taken him away," she said briefly, without 
looking up. “ Please care for his horse and accept my 
thanks, ’ ’ and then she hastened to her room and did not ap- 
pear again that day. 

He complied with her request, then went back to his 
work, and the grain fell as if the reaper were Death himself. 

Mrs. Arnold’s course was not so harsh and rude as it 
seemed, and can readily be explained on the theory by which 
she governed her feelings and actions toward her son. An 
obscure weakness in the functions of his heart had rendered 
him subject to fainting turns from early childhood. Phy- 
sicians had always cautioned against over-exertion and over- 
excitement of any kind ; therefore he had not been sent to 
school like the other children, or permitted to indulge in 
tne sports natural to his age. Having been constantly cau- 
tioned, curbed, and repressed, he grew into a timid, self-dis- 
trustful, irresolute man, and yet was keenly sensible of the 
defects that separated him from other men. No one ever 
longed for independence more earnestly than he ; few were 
less able to achieve it. His mother, having shielded him so 
many years from himself as well as from adverse influences 
from without, had formed the habit of surveillance. Exag- 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


T 3* 

gerating his weakness and dependence, his unfitness to com- 
pete with other men in active pursuits, she had almost 
ignored his manhood. The rest of the family naturally took 
their tone from her, regarding him as an invalid, and treating 
him as one. Chafing with secret and increasing bitterness 
over his misfortune and anomalous position, he grew more 
and more silent and reserved, dwelling apart in a world 
created from a literature that was not of the best or most 
wholesome character. As long as he lived a quiet, monoto- 
nous life that accorded with the caution enjoined by physi- 
cians, he gave his mother little solicitude, for the woman of 
me world, versed in all the proprieties of her station, had nc 
comprehension of the sensitive spirit that had been repressed 
equally with his physical nature. That he should become 
cold toward her, and cynical toward her world of wealth and 
fashion, was to her but a proof that his character was de- 
fective also, and led to the fear that his “absurd notions” 
might occasion trouble. His intimacy with the Jocelyns 
threatened to justify her forebodings, and, while knowing 
nothing of Mildred personally, she was naturally inclined to 
the belief that she, like many others, would be glad to escape 
poverty by allying herself to an old and wealthy family, and 
she regarded her son as weak enough to become a ready vic- 
tim. Nevertheless he was of age, and if he should enter into a 
formal engagement it might be no easy matter to break it or 
escape the consequences. Therefore she determined at all 
hazards to prevent such a consummation, and thus far had 
succeeded. She was greatly angered that, in spite of her pre- 
cautions and injunctions, he had again met Mildred, and she 
resolved to end the interview at once, even at the cost of 
being thought rude and harsh, for if left to themselves that 
summer day they might realize all her fears. At the same 
time she proposed to manifest her disapproval so decidedly 
that if the young woman still sought to enter her family, it 


A SCENE BENEA TH THE HEMLOCKS. ~ I33 

would be by a sort of violence ; and she also was not un- 
mindful of the fact that, with the exception of an apparent 
laborer and her coachman, only the parties interested were 
the witnesses of her tactics. Therefore she had looked a\ 
Mildred as coldly and haughtily as only a proud woman can, 
with the result already narrated. Although compelled tc 
admit that the girl was not what she had imagined her to be, 
she was none the less bent on preventing further complica- 
tions, and resolved to take her son elsewhere as soon as he 
had sufficiently recovered. 

The next morning Mildred left her seclusion, and her 
aspect was pale and resolute, but no reference was made to 
the events uppermost in the minds of those aware of them. 
Even the children and Belle had been so cautioned that they 
were reticent. In the evening, however, as Roger was raking 
the flower-beds over to prevent the weeds from starting, Mil- 
dred came out, and joining him said, a little bitterly, “ Well, 
what did your microscopic vision reveal to you yesterday 
morning V* 

‘ ‘ A brave, proud girl, for whom I have the deepest re- 
spect, ’ ’ he replied, looking directly into her eyes. 

“Was that all ?” 

“ No, indeed. ” 

“ Well, what else?” she persisted, in a tone quite unlike 
ner usual accent. 

* ‘ I saw the merest shadow of a man and the ghost of a 
woman who must weigh nearly two hundred.” 

She flushed hotly as she said, “You pride yourself on 
your keen perceptions, but the truth is you are blind, ’ ’ and 
she was turning angrily away when he answered, “ Time will 
show how blind I am, ’ ’ and then he went on quietly with 
his work. 

“ Oh, how I detest that man 1” she muttered, as she went 
up to her favorite haunt on the hilltop looking toward the 


*34 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


south. * ‘ Why did he, of all others, have to be present with 
his prying eyes at the odious scene ? He must know now 
how I feel toward Vinton Arnold, and yet he has so little 
sense and delicacy that he expresses contempt for him to my 
face. Brute strength may be his ideal of manhood, but it’s 
not mine ; and he knows so little of women that he thinks 1 
ought to despise one who is simply unfortunate, and through 
no fault of his own. Poor, poor Vinton ! Brief as were the 
moments before we were interrupted, he had time to assure 
me that life had become a burden because of our separation, 
and yet he said that he had no right to see me, no right to 
send me a line, no right to add his weakness to my other 
misfortunes. Time shall at least show one thing — that I can 
be patient and true. That proud, cold woman has no con- 
trol over me, and as long as he is faithful I shall be.” 


THE OLD MANSION-. 


135 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE OLD MANSION. 

M ILDRED’S letter to her father brought a request that 
she should join him at once and choose between two 
sets of rooms, of which he had the refusal. She insisted upon 
going, for she was eager to leave a place that had become 
hateful to her. She greatly wished to hear of Arnold’s wel- 
fare before her departure, but would not make any effort to 
do so. 

To her surprise, however, Roger handed her a note the fol- 
lowing morning. She knew the handwriting well, and 
asked, “ How do you happen to have this, Mr. Atwood ?” 

' I supposed you would wish to hear from your friend, 
^d so went up to the hotel. As soon as Mr. Arnold saw 
me he asked me to give you that letter. ’ ’ 

Mildred bit her lip. Was it an officious or a friendly act ? 
She was beginning to doubt whether she had fully gauged 
the character of this young farmer, but of one thing she was 
instinctively certain — his motive was personal, and sprung 
from an interest in her which was now more repugnant than 
ever. Whether this instance was an obtrusive meddling in 
her affairs, or an act well meant, but unwarranted by their 
relations, she could not tell. However it might be, she 
wished the letter had come by any other hands than his. 

She gravely thanked him, and added, “ Mr. Atwood, 
please do not feel called upon to do anything further for me 
unless requested. ’ ’ 


136 


W I THOU 7 A HOME . 


He grew pale and his lips tightened, for her words and 
manner hurt him. His act had been in truth very generous 
and self-effacing, but he merely bowed in seeming acquies- 
cence, and turned away. 

Arnold's letter ran as follows : 

* * The memory of that scene yesterday will oppress me 
forever. Nothing could have happened that would more 
clearly convince you that I am unworthy of your thought 
And yet it will be a life-long agony to know that I am un- 
worthy. When I tell you that I love and honor you above 
all other women it is but a poor compensation, I fear, for all 
that I have made you suffer. My mother has kindly (?) in- 
formed me that she told you how feeble I am, and I proved 
her words true. I feel that the best service I can render you 
is to say, Forget me wholly ; and yet you can never know 
what such words cost me. /shall never forget, unless death 
is forgetting. If I had the strength to be of any help to you 
at all, I would break away at once and take the consequences ; 
but I have been an invalid all my life, and why I still con- 
tinue to live I scarcely know. If, however, there should 
ever be a time when one so weak as I am can aid you, give 
me this one shadowy hope that you will come to me. 

“ Vinton Arnold.’ ’ 

lliis was Mildred’s reply : 

“ It is not in my nature to forget, therefore I cannot. It 
is not my wish to forget, therefore I will net. You will find 
me ever the same. 

“ Mildred Jocelyn.” 

Roger would have taken her reply to the hotel that very 
night, so great was her power over him, but for his sake, as 
well as her own, she wished to teach him once for all that 
their ways were apart She dreaded from what he had said 


THE OLD MANSION . 


i3r 

that he would follow her to the city and renew the unwelcome 
association of his life with hers. Therefore she engaged 
heavy, blundering Jotham to deliver the note, giving him a 
dollar from her slender purse as a reward. He lost the note 
where it was never found, and stolidly concealed the fact lest 
he should lose the dollar. The little characteristic missive fell 
to the earth somewhere like a seed that drops into an un- 
kindly soil and perishes. Roger only knew that stupid 
Jotham had been preferred as her messenger. She made 
no secret of the fact, but gave the note to the laborer 
when he came in to his nooning the following day. 
She knew Roger was watching her from the front porch, 
and as she turned toward him she saw she had wounded him 
so deeply that she had some compunctions ; but he avoid- 
ed meeting her, nor did she find a chance to speak to 
him again. When, an hour later, she was ready to depart 
with Mr. Atwood for the distant landing, Roger was not 
to be found. Her conscience smote her a little, but she 
felt that it would be the best for him in the future, and 
would probably end his nonsense about leaving home and 
winning fame out in the world. She had a warm, genuine 
good-will for Mrs. Atwood and Susan, and even for poor, 
grumbling Mr. Atwood, at whose meagre, shrivelled life she 
often wondered ; and it would be a source of much pain to 
her if she became even the blameless cause of Roger’s leaving 
home in the absurd hope of eventually becoming great and 
rich, and then appearing to her in her poverty, like a prince 
in fairy lore. “ Nothing but the most vigorous snubbing 
will bring him to his senses, ’ ’ she thought, and she now 
believed that he would soon subside into his old life, and be 
none the worse for the summer's episode. Therefore, after 
embracing her mother again and again in her room, she bade 
Mrs. Atwood and Susan good-by very kindly, and they saw 
her depart with genuine regret For Roger there was noth' 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


138 

ing more than the quiet remark to Mrs. Atwood, “ Please 
say good-by for me to your son. 

Belle and the children accompanied her to the landing, 
and were in great glee over the long drive. Mildred’s spirits 
rose also. She had learned most emphatically that she was 
not dead to her lover, and she thought her words, brief as 
they were, would cheer and sustain him and suggest hope for 
the future. Although she was a little sorry for Roger, she 
was glad to think that his dark, searching eyes would no 
longer follow her, nor she be compelled from day to day to 
recognize a curbed but ever-present and unwelcome regard. 
His feeling toward her seemed like something pent up, yet 
growing, and she was always fearing it might burst forth. In 
his mastery of the horse he had shown himself so strong and 
fearless that, not sure of his self-restraint, she dreaded lest in 
some unguarded moment he might vehemently plead for her 
love. The very thought of this made her shudder and shrink, 
and the belief that she would probably never see him again 
gave decided relief. 

Chief of all, she was glad that her weary waiting and un- 
certainty were over. She was now on her way to seek in- 
dependence and a home. However humble the latter, it 
would be a place from which could be excluded all strange 
and prying looks. When together and alone again, their 
sorrows and weaknesses could be hidden or seen only with 
the eyes of love. 

The ten days or more that had elapsed since Mr. Jocelyn’s 
departure had made him doubtful whether he could hide his 
weakness or overcome it very readily. He believed he was 
gaining ground since he was able to reduce the amount of 
morphia taken, but in order to keep up he had to employ 
the stimulant more frequently. By this method he hoped 
never so to lose self-control as to excite suspicion, and also 
gradually to wean himself from the drug altogether. Of the 


THE OLD MANSION. 


'to 


two he would rather meet Mildred than his wife ; the latter 
must be kept in ignorance, since to destroy her absolute trust 
was to be destroyed. Mildred would more quickly suspect 
his fault than would her mother, and if he could hide his 
failing from her he surely could from his wife, until complete 
mastery left nothing to be concealed. That day of liberty 
always seemed but a little in advance. He surely had the 
will and the strength to give up a mere drug. He who had 
led charges amid the smoke and thunder of a hundred can- 
non, and had warded off sabre-thrusts from muscular, reso- 
lute hands, was not going to be pricked to death by a little 
syringe in his own hand. His very thraldom to the habit 
seemed an improbable, grotesque dream, which some morn- 
ing would dissipate, but as a matter of experience each morn- 
ing brought such a profound sinking and * ‘ goneness' ’ that 
his will-power shrivelled like a paper barricade before the 
scorching intensity of his desire. After the stimulant began 
its work, however, all things seemed possible, and nothing 
more so than his power to abandon the drug when he should 
fully decide upon the act. 

On the morning of Mildred’s arrival, having lifted himself 
out of his chronic dejection by the lever of opium, he went 
to meet her with the genuine gladness of a proud, loving 
lather asserting itself like a ray of June light struggling 
through noxious vapors. She was delighted to find him ap- 
parently so well. His walk and the heat had brought color 
to his face, the drug had bestowed animation and confidence, 
while his heart gave an honest, loving welcome without the 
aid of any stimulant. They rode up-town together as happily 
and hopefully as if the nearly empty car were their own car- 
riage, and they were seeking a home in Fifth Avenue instead 
of a tenement-house ; but the hope and happiness of one 
was based on youth, love, faith, courage, and inexperience, 
and of the other on a lurid cloud that would darken steadily 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


140 

except as renewed gleams were shot through it by a light that 
was infernal. Any kindly man or woman would have smiled 
appreciatively to see the handsome father and beautiful daugh- 
ter apparently as absorbed in each other’ s plans and interests 
as a young couple seeking the home in which their future life 
would centre. Who would dream that on this sunny morn- 
ing, and in a prosaic street-car, the actors of a sad, sad tragedy 
were on their way to its unsuspected scenes ? Who would 
dream that Mildred and her father, of all others, were the 
actors ? 

“ Millie,” said Mr. Jocelyn, “ I fear the place to which 
I shall at first take you may shock you a little. It’s an old 
Revolutionary mansion, gray and rather dilapidated, but it 
reminded me of some of our residences in the South ; and, 
although perhaps no better — perhaps not so good — it is still 
quite unlike the stereotyped tenement-house abomination 
prevailing in this city. This ancient abode of colonial wealth 
took my fancy. It suggested our own changed fortunes by 
its fall to its present uses. And yet the carving around and 
above the doors and windows, much of which still remains, 
and the lofty ceilings all remind one of past better days that 
can never return to the poor house, but which we must bring 
back as soon as possible. I shall never be content or happy, 
Millie, until I have placed my dear ones in the sphere to 
which they really belong ; but for the present I do not see 
how we can pay rent for anything much better than rooms 
in the old mansion. As far as I can learn, the people who 
\ive in it are poor, but quiet and respectable. ” 

Her father’s opium-tinged description caught Mildred’s 
fancy also, but when she saw the building her heart sank at 
the prospect. To her a tenement-house was as yet a vague, 
untested reality, and the one before her was indeed old and 
dilapidated, gray and haggard with more than a century’ s age. 

The mansion having beep built to face the river, its front 


THE OLD MANSION. 


141 


tfas not upon the street, but toward the west. Around its 
base the mortar was crumbling away, revealing its mingled 
brick and stone foundation. The hip-roof of weather-beaten 
shingles still remained, and was surmounted by a wide-railed 
and wooden platform used by the occupants of the dwelling 
for the drying of clothes, etc. 

“ It makes me think of an Old, dying, moss-draped white 
oak standing in the midst of trees of younger and different 
growth,’ ’ said Mr. Jocelyn, as he and Mildred scanned the 
gable-end of the house. 

Then they entered by two or three stone steps a narrow 
passage, ascended a forlorn wooden stairway, covered overhead 
by a few boards nailed lengthwise, and so reached a small 
landing, where once had been a stately porch or wide veranda, 
looking no doubt over a broad sweep of lawn and the shining 
river. The high-arched doorway was still intact, with elabo- 
rately carved but now defaced wood-work, which, rising from 
the sill on either side, was continued in various old-fashioned 
designs until it culminated over a large square window in the 
second story. Generations had watched the sunsets from 
that window, but now high brick walls threw it in shadow 
much of the day. 

A quaint brass knocker which gentlemen — long since 
dust — had approached wearing laced three-cornered hats, 
velvet short-clothes, and silver buckles, and upon which 
they had rapped announcement of their social claims, still 
hung on the rest from which they had lifted it. It was not 
often used at present, for people entered without knocking, 
and the wide hall within was in a sense but a continuation of 
the street ; also the winding stairway, with its ancient rail, 
which started out on one side and wound up to another 
square hallway. To each of these open spaces the several 
families had equal rights. 

The lower hall had originally extended through the whole 


14 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


depth of the building to a rear doorway, equally old-fashioned 
but less elaborately ornamented, but now a partition crossed 
the raised circle on the ceiling from which had once hung an 
ancient candelabrum. Upon each hallway opened four suites 
of two rooms each, and thus the old mansion usually sheltered 
twelve families instead of one. The doors were high, and 
surmounted by quaint and worm-eaten carved work. 

These halls seemed very dark and close to Mildred, who 
had just come out of the sunlight and from the country, but 
they were cool and spacious. They were shown by the jani- 
tor to a room over twenty feet square on the second story, 
whose former occupants had left the souvenir of unlimited 
dirt. ‘ ‘ They was dissipated, and we don’ t let sich stay in 
the buildin , , ,, said the man. “ That’s one thing in favor of 
the place, papa,” poor Mildred remarked, and at the moment 
it seemed to her about the only thing, for the old house was 
evidently going down hill so fast that it seemed to her as if it 
might carry its occupants with it. Still, on further inspec- 
tion, the room was found to be so large and airy and the 
ceiling so high that it might be made the abode of health and 
romfort. Opening into the large apartment was another about 
eight feet by twelve, and this was all. 

Mildred drew a long breath. Could the whole domestic 
life of the family be carried on in those two rooms ? “I never 
realized how thousands of people live,” she sighed. 

“ It will only be for a little while, Millie,” whispered her 
father. 

The young girl shrank and shivered even in the summer 
morning at the ordeal of crowded life, with only intervening 
doorways and thin partitions between them and all sorts of 
unknown neighbors. 

‘ ‘ Suppose, papa, we look at the other rooms of which you 
have the refusal,” she faltered. 

Even in his false buoyancy he could not suppress a sigh as 


THE OLD MANSION. 


143 


he saw that Mildred, in spite of her determination to make 
the best of everything, had not imagined what a tenement- 
house was. “ We will be back in an hour or more,’' he 
whispered to the janitor, for he believed the other rooms 
would appear still more repulsive. 

And so they did, for when Mildred had climbed up three 
stairways in a five-story, narrow house, which even at that 
hour was filled with a babel of sounds, the old mansion 
seemed a refuge, and when she had glanced around the nar- 
row room and two dark closets of bedrooms, she shuddered 
and said, ‘ ‘ Papa, can we really afford nothing better ?’ ’ 

“ Honestly, Millie, we cannot for the present. My income 
is exceedingly small, although it will soon be increased, no 
doubt. But if we pay too much for rooms we shall have 
nothing to live upon while waiting for better times. These 
rooms are fourteen dollars a month. Those in the old man- 
sion are only eight, and the two rooms there give more 
chance for comfort than do these three. * ’ 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” cried Mildred, “ I could not live her4 
at all. Let us go back. ” 

While returning, her father showed her apartments in 
other tenements for which rents of ten to sixteen dollars were 
charged, and she saw that she would not obtain any more in 
space and light than for half the money in the old house, 
which had been built when that part of the island was open 
country. 

‘ Forgive me, papa, ’ ’ she said, smiling, * ‘ that I shivered 
a little at the first plunge. We will go to the old house and 
stay there until we can do better. It was once evidently a 
beautiful home, and I believe that within it we can make a 
happy home, if we will. These other tenements were never 
homes, and I don’ t see how they ever could be. They are 
angular, patent, human packing-boxes, which mock at the 
very idea of home coziness and privacy. They were nevei 


144 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


built for homes, they were built to rent. In the old house 
I noticed that a blank wall near will prevent people staring 
into our windows, and the space has not been so cut up but 
that we can keep ourselves somewhat secluded.' ’ 

Next to a quiet way of earning money, Mildred coveted 
seclusion beyond everything else. There was one deep hope 
that fed her life. Her father would work his way up into 
affluence, and she again could welcome Vinton Arnold to 
her own parlor. Happiness would bring him better health, 
and the time would come when he could choose and act as 
his heart dictated. With woman’s pathetic fortitude and 
patience she would hope and wait for that day. But not for 
the world must his proud mother know to what straits they 
were driven, and she meant that the old house should be- 
come a hiding-place as well as a home. 

Therefore the rooms in the old mansion were taken. A 
stout, cheery English woman, who with her plump, red 
arms was fighting life’s battle for herself and a brood of little 
ones, was engaged to clean up and prepare for the furniture. 
Mildred was eager to get settled, and her father, having 
ordered such household goods as they required to be sent 
from their place of storage the following day, repaired to his 
place of business. 

“ Now, miss,” said sensible Mrs. Wheaton, “ I don’t vant 
to do hany more than yer vants done, but hif I was you I’ d 
give hall these ’ere vails a coat hof lime. Vitevash is ’ole- 
some, yer know, and sweetens heverything ; hit’ll kind o’ 
take haway the nasty taste those drunken people left.” 

“ Please whitewash, then, and use plenty of lime. If you 
can sweeten these rooms, do so by all means, but I fear that 
result is beyond your brush or any other. ’ ’ 

“ You’ve seen better days, miss, and I ’ave meself ; but 
yer mustn't be down'arted, yer know. See 'ow the sunshine 
comes in, and ven hit falls hon a carpet, a little furniture, and 


THE OLD MANSION. 


MS 

ycr hown people, these ’ ere rooms vill soon grow ' omelike, 
and yer’ll come back to 'em hafter yer day’s vork’s hover 
gladly henough. I s’ pose yer’ll vork, since you’ve come 
hamong people who must vork hearly and late. 

4 ‘ Yes, indeed, we’ll work— that is all we ask for." 

“ And hit's time I vas habout mine hinstead hof gossip- 
ing 'ere. Yer’ll soon see 'ow spick and span I'll make 
heverything. ” 

With a dispatch, deftness, and strength that to Mildred 
seemed wonderful, she bought the lime, made the wash, and 
soon dark stains and smoky patches of wall and ceiling grew 
white under her strong, sweeping strokes. It was not in the 
girl’s nature, nor in accordance with her present scheme 
of life, to be an idle spectator, and from her travelling-bag 
she soon transformed herself into as charming a house-cleaner 
as ever waged war against that chief enemy of life and health 
— dirt. Her round, white arms, bared almost to the shoul- 
der, seemed designed as a sculptor’s model rather than to 
wield the brush with which she scoured the paint and wood- 
work ; but she thought not of sculpture except in the remote 
and figurative way of querying, with mind far absent from 
her work, how best she could carve their humble fortunes out 
of the unpromising material n * the present and the near 
future. 


146 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“WELCOME home,” 

M ILDRED felt that she had become a working-woman 
in very truth as she cleaned the dingy closets, vin- 
dictively prying into corners and crevices that had been 
unmolested by generations of tenants, and the rich color pro- 
duced by summer heat and unwonted exertion deepened at 
the thought, “ What would Vinton Arnold, what would his 
mother think if they saw me now ? The latter would un- 
doubtedly remark/’ she murmured, in bitterness of spirit, 
“ that I had at last found my true sphere, and was engaged in 
befitting tasks ; but should I lose in his eyes ?’ ’ 

Indeed she would not, either in his eyes or in those of any 
other man capable of appreciating womanly grace. Genuine 
beauty is a rare and wonderful gift, and, like genius, tri- 
umphs over adverse circumstances, and is often enhanced by 
them. Even prosaic Mrs. Wheaton was compelled to pause 
from time to time to admire the slender, supple form whose 
perfect outlines were revealed by the stooping, twisting, and 
reaching required by the nature of the labor. But the vary- 
ing expressions of her face, revealing a mind as active as the 
busy hands, were a richer study. The impact of her brush 
was vigorous, and with looks of aversion and disgust she 
would cleanse away the grimy stains as if they were an es- 
sential part of the moral as well as gross material life of the 
former occupants. To a refined nature association forms no 
slight element in the constitution of a home ; and horrible 


"WELCOME HOME." 


!47 


conjectures concerning repulsive indications of the vulgar 
people who once kennelled where others would live decently 
and purely are among the manifold miseries of tenement 
life. In spite of all her will-power, Mildred shuddered, and 
shrank from even this remote contact with a phase of human- 
ity peculiarly revolting to her, and the protest of her innate 
delicacy would often appear strongly upon her face. 

The worst of it is, ’ ’ she muttered, ‘ ‘ that soap and water 
cannot blot out thoughts of the people who were here before 
us.” 

But thoughts of other people, some of whom were very 
dear to her, brought varying expressions, and once she 
smiled and said to herself, ‘ ‘ Roger Atwood now thinks, no 
doubt, that in me he has seen another * ghost of a woman,' 
weighing a little less than ‘ two hundred. ’ Of all my little 
affairs of that nature, his was the most preposterous and 
absurd. That one human being should expect and seek from 
another what is so impossible to give produces a certain half- 
humorous irritation that is indescribable. ' ’ 

Stout Mrs. Wheaton's mind and fancy were not so busy as 
her hands, and when twelve o' clock came she knew the hour, 
although carrying no watch. She had interrupted Mildred’s 
musings from time to time, but had received rather absent 
replies, for the actual inception of a life of toil occasioned 
many thoughts. 

When, however, the practical woman remarked, “I’ve a 
hinside 'int that hit’s time we took a bite together,” Mildred 
awakened to an honest and hungry approval of the suggestion. 

“ I don’t like to intrude upon you, Mrs. Wheaton,” she 
said. “ Isn’t there some place near where I can go ?” 

“ Hindeed there his — right down to my room, hif ye’re 
not habove my company. I can brew yer has good a cup 
o’ tea has hany cook in the land, and ve’ 11 find somethin’ 
nourishin’ to go vith hit.” 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


148 

“ Mrs. Wheaton, you are a genuine friend. I'm so glad 
you were here and willing to help me, for you make me feel 
safer and more hopeful. You seem brave and not afraid of 
being poor, and I want to learn your courage. So far from 
being above your company, I am very grateful for it, and I 
shall try to repay your kindness with like neighborly return 
when I can ; but when it comes to actual expense you mus* 
let me pay my way. How is it you are so brave and cheery 
when, as you say, you are alone with several children to sup- 
port ?” 

“I'll tell yer vhile ve heat hour dinner; so lock the 
door and come vith me. ' ' 

Mrs. Wheaton’s room was plain, indeed, but neat and 
homelike. A variegated and much-patched carpet covered 
part of the floor, which was bare around the ample cooking- 
stove, whereon a wholesome dinner soon smoked with appe- 
tizing odors. Her daughter, a young girl about twelve 
years of age, assisted in the preparations, and then went to 
call the other children, who were playing on the side- 
walk. 

“ ’Ow is it I’m so brave and cheery ?'' Mrs. Wheaton al 
last answered with a sunshiny smile. “ I’ve a stout pair hoi 
harms, I’ve a stout body, and I’ve a downright belief that 
the Lord means veil by me and mine. I'm tryin’ to do my 
best, and hit’s is biziness to take care hof the rest. Hand 
’E ’as so far. I’ve been a bit 'ungry meself now and 
then, but the children halways ’ad enough. So I vork and 
trust and lose no time and strength ha-vorrying. Things’ 11 
all come hout right some day ; and I’ve no time to be doin' 
the Lord’s vork hin carryin’ the burden hon my shoulders, 
hif they are broad. ’ Ere’ s the children ; now sit right down 
with hus, and velcome. Since ve're neighbors ve’ll be neigh- 
borly and friendly like ; and before yer know hit, yer’ 11 be 
snug and comfortable hin your hown rooms, and yer can be 


“ WELCOME HOME." 


149 


jist as 'appy hin 'em has hever yer vas hin yerlife. Bein' poor 
and ’aving to vork hain't the vorst troubles in the vorld." 

The good woman’s stout, cheery spirit and homely faith 
were just the tonics that Mildred needed, and they were all the 
more effective because combined with the exhilarating tea and 
wholesome food. Therefore instead of a weary and depress- 
ing day, in which body and spirit acted and reacted on each 
other until the evening brought shadows deeper than the 
night, her courage and cheerfulness grew with the hours of 
sustained and healthful toil, and when her father appeared at 
six o’clock her smile warmed his heart. At the cost of no 
slight effort he had so reduced his doses of morphia that 
neither she nor any one could have detected anything unnat- 
ural in his manner. He praised their work unstintedly, and 
thanked Mrs. Wheaton for her kindness with such warm 
Southern frankness that her eyes grew moist with gratification. 
Indeed the rooms had grown so clean and wholesome that 
Mr. Jocelyn said that they looked homelike already. Mrs. 
Wheaton assured Mildred that if she would be content, she 
could be made quite comfortable on a lounge in her large 
living-room, and the young girl won her heart completely by 
saying that she would rather stay with her than go to the Fifth 
Avenue Hotel. Her words were sincere, for in accordance 
with her nature her heart was already drawn toward the place 
which gave even promise of a home, and the hearty kindness 
received there made her shrink from the strange, indifferent 
world without. 

Her father asked her to resume her travelling dress, and 
then by a street-car they soon reached a quiet restaurant near 
Central Park, from which the outlook was upon trees and 
shrubbery. The people of New York are singularly fortunate 
in their ability to reach, at slight expense of money and time, 
many places where the air is pure, and the sense of beauty 
can find abundant gratification. Mildred felt that only 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


l 5° 

extreme poverty could rob them in summer of many simple 
yet genuine pleasures. When, after their frugal supper, she 
ind her father strolled through a path winding around a min- 
iature lake on which swans were floating, she believed that 
one of her chief fears might be unfounded. Her love of 
beauty need not be stifled, since there was so much, even in 
the crowded town, which could be seen without cost. 

“ Papa,” she said, “ our lives will not be meagre and color- 
less unless we make them so. Every tree and shrub — indeed 
every leaf upon them and every ripple on the water — seems 
beautiful to me this evening. I do not fear working hard if 
we can often have these inexpensive pleasures. The thing 
in poverty that has most troubled me was the fear that one's 
nature might become blunted, callous, and unresponsive. A 
starved soul and heart seem to me infinitely worse than a 
starved body. Thank God, this beautiful place is as free to 
us now as ever, and I think we enjoy it more than many of 
those people in yonder carriages. Then at the cost of a few 
pennies we can get many a breezy outlook, and fill our lungs 
with fresh air on the ferry-boats. So don’t let us be down- 
hearted, papa, and mope while we are waiting for better 
days. Each day may bring us something that we can enjoy 
with honest zest. ’ ’ 

“ God bless you, Millie,” replied her father. “ We’ll try 
to do just as you suggest.” Nevertheless he sighed deeply. 
She was free ; he was a slave. In the depths of the placid 
lake the graceful swans, the pretty wooded shores, were faith- 
fully reflected. In Mildred’s clear blue eyes the truth of her 
words, the goodness and sincerity of her heart, were revealed 
with equal certainty. His eyes were downcast and fixed on 
an abyss which no soul has ever fathomed. 

“ Great God !” he murmured, “ I must escape ; I shall 
— I will escape but while Mildred stepped into a florist’s 
shop to purchase a blooming plant for Mrs. Wheaton, he 


" welcome home:' 


* 5 * 

furtively took from his pocket a small paper of white-looking 
powder — just the amount which experience had taught him 
he could take and not betray himself. As a result she was 
delighted to find him genial and wakeful until they parted 
rather late in the old mansion wherein, she jestingly said, she 
proposed to build their nest, like a barn-swallow, the follow- 
ing day. 

After a brief consultation with Mrs. Wheaton the next 
morning Mildred told her father to send for the rest of the 
family at once, and that she would be ready for them. The 
household goods arrived promptly from their place of storage, 
and she was positively happy while transforming the bare 
rooms into a home that every hour grew more inviting. 
They had retained, when giving up their house in the spring, 
more furniture than was sufficient for the limited space they 
would now occupy, and Mildred had enough material and 
taste to banish the impression of poverty almost wholly from 
their two rooms. She had the good sense, also, to make the 
question of appearances always secondary to that of comfort, 
and rigorously excluded what was bulky and unnecessary. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t like crowded rooms, 7 7 she said, ‘ * and mamma 
must have just as little to care for and tax her strength as 
possible . 77 One side of the large room was partitioned off as 
a sleeping apartment for her father, mother, and the two chil - 
dren, and was made private by curtains of dark, inexpensive 
material. The remainder and larger part facing the east was 
to be kitchen, dining and living room. Mrs. Wheaton did 
the heavy work, and looked on in delighted wonder as the 
young girl, with a gift peculiarly her own, gave an air of 
grace and homelike coziness to every part. Hers was a true 
woman’s touch in woman’s undisputed realm, and her father, 
with strange alternations of sighs and smiles, assisted her after 
his return from business. Gras had never been introduced in 
the old house, and so two pretty shaded lamps were bought 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


One stood on the lofty, old-fashioned mantel, which was so 
high that Mildred could pass under it without stooping, and 
the other on the table that was to serve for many uses. 

“ If we should put a crane in the fireplace," Mr. Jocelyn 
dreamily mused, " I could imagine that we were at my old 
home in the South ; ' but she had said they could not afford 
that amount of sentiment, and therefore a stove was obtained 
of the same model that shrewd Mrs. Wheaton had found so 
well adapted to varied uses. 

After two busy days their task was well-nigh completed, 
and Mildred slept in her own little room, which she was to 
share with Belle, and her weariness, and the sense that the 
resting-place was hers by honest right, brought dreamless and 
refreshing sleep. For the sake of ‘‘auld lang syne," her 
father kindled a fire on the hearth, and sat brooding over it, 
looking regretfully back into the past, and with distrustful 
eyes toward the future. The dark commercial outlook filled 
that future with many uncertain elements ; and yet, alas 1 he 
felt that he himself was becoming the chief element of un- 
certainty in the problem of their coming life. There were 
times when he could distinguish between his real prospects 
and his vague opium dreams, but this power of correct judg- 
ment was passing from him. When not under the influence 
of the drug everything looked dull, leaden, and hopeless. 
Thus he alternated between utter dejection, for which there 
would have been no cause were he in his normal condition, 
and sanguine hopes and expectations that were still more 
baseless. He had not gone to a physician and made known 
his condition, as he had intended while on his brief visit to 
the country ; his pride had revolted at such a confession of 
weakness, and he felt that surely he would have sufficient 
strength of mind to break the spell unaided. But, so far 
from breaking it, every day had increased its power. 

The effects of opium and the strength of the habit, as is the 


"WELCOME HOME 


i5J 


case with other stimulants, vary with the temperament and 
constitution of the victims. A few can use it with compara- 
tive moderation and with no great detriment for a long time, 
especially if they allow considerable intervals to elapse between 
the periods of indulgence, but they eventually sink into as 
horrible a thraldom as that which degrades the least cautious. 
Upon far more the drug promptly fastens its deathly grip, 
and too often when they awaken to their danger they find 
themselves almost powerless. Still if they would then seek a 
physician’s advice and resolutely cease using the poison in 
any form, they would regain their physical and mental tone 
within a comparatively brief time. I am glad to believe that 
some do stop at this period and escape. Their sufferings for 
a time must be severe, and yet they are nothing compared 
with the tortures awaiting them if they do not abstain. The 
majority, however, temporize and attempt a gradual ref- 
ormation. There is not a ray of hope or the faintest prospect 
of cure for those who at this stage adopt half-way measures. 
They soon learn that they cannot maintain the moderation 
which they have resolved upon. A healthful man of good 
habits may be said to be at par. One indulgence in opium 
lifts him far above par, but in the inevitable reaction he sinks 
below it, and wronged nature will not rally at once ; there- 
fore she is hastened and spurred by the stimulant, and the 
man rises above par again, yet not quite so high as before, 
and he sinks lower in the reaction. With this process often 
repeated the system soon begins to lose its elasticity ; the 
man sinks lower and more heavily every time ; the amount 
of the drug that once produced a delightful exhilaration 
soon scarcely brings him up to par, and he must steadily 
strengthen the fatal leverage until at last even a deadly dose 
cannot lift him into any condition like his old exhilaration 
or serenity. 

There are a vast number of men and women who ought 


154 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


never to take stimulants at all. They had better die than to 
begin to use them habitually, and even to touch them is 
hazardous. There is slumbering in their natures a predispo- 
sition toward their excessive use which a slight indulgence 
may kindle into a consuming, clamorous desire. Opium 
had apparently found something peculiarly congenial in Mr. 
Jocelyn’s temperament and constitution, and at first it had 
rewarded him with experiences more delightful than most of 
its votaries enjoy. But it is not very long content to remain 
a servant, and in many instances very speedily becomes the 
most terrible of masters. He had already reached such an 
advanced stage of dependence upon it that its withdrawal 
would now leave him weak, helpless, and almost distracted 
for a time. It would probably cost him his situation ; his 
weakness would be revealed to his family and to the world, 
and the knowledge of it might prevent his obtaining employ- 
ment elsewhere ; therefore he felt that he must hide the vice 
and fight it to its death in absolute secrecy. Under the ter- 
rible necromancy of his sin the wife from whom he had 
scarcely concealed a thought in preceding years was the one 
whom he most feared. As yet the habit was a sin, because 
he had the power to overcome it if he would simply resolve to 
do right regardless of the consequences ; and these would be 
slight indeed compared with the results of further indulgence. 
He had better lose his situation a hundred times ; he had 
better see his family faint from hunger for weeks together, 
should such an ordeal be an essential part of his struggle for 
freedom, for only by such an unfaltering effort could he re- 
gain the solid ground on which enduring happiness and pros- 
perity could be built. As it was, he was rapidly approaching 
a point where his habit would become a terrible and uncon- 
trollable disease, for which he would still be morally re- 
sponsible — a responsibility, however, in which, before the 
bar of true justice, the physician who first ga ve the drug with- 


“ WELCOME HOME." 


X SS 

out adequate caution would deeply share. He felt his dan- 
ger as he sat cowering over the dying fire ; even with its 
warmth added to that of the summer night he shivered at 
his peril, but he did not appreciate it in any proper sense. 
He resolved again, as he often had before, that each day 
should witness increasing progress, then feeling that he must 
sleep he bared his arm and sent enough of Magendie's solu- 
tion into his system to produce such rest as opium bestows. 

To her surprise Mildred found the awakening of her father 
a difficult task the following morning. The boat on which 
his wife and children were to arrive was probably already at 
the wharf, and she had thought he would be up with the sun 
to meet them, but he seemed oppressed with an untimely 
stupor. When at last he appeared he explained that the fire 
on the hearth had induced a fit of brooding over the past and 
future, and that he had sat up late. 

“ Here’s a cup of coffee, papa,” she said briskly, “ and 
it will wake you up. I’ll have breakfast ready for you all by 
the time you can return, and I'm so eager to see mamma 
that I could fly to her.” 

Mortified that he should even appear dilatory at such a 
time, he hastened away, but he was far beyond such a mild 
stimulant as coffee. Even now, when events were occurring 
which would naturally sustain from their deep personal in- 
terest, he found himself reduced to an almost complete de- 
pendence on an unnatural support. Before sleeping he had 
appealed to his dread master, and his first waking moments 
brought a renewed act of homage. Opium was becoming 
his god, his religion. Already it stood between him and his 
wife and children. It was steadily undermining his charac- 
ter, and if not abandoned would soon leave but the hollow 
semblance of a man. 

As the steamboat arrived in the night, Mrs. Jocelyn had no 
sense of disappointment at not being met, and through Mil- 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


dred’s persistency it was still early when her husband ap- 
peared. His greeting was so affectionate, and he appeared 
so well after his hasty walk, that the old glad, hopeful look 
came into her eyes. To Belle and the children, coming 
back to the city was like coming home as in former years, 
only a little earlier. The farm had grown to be somewhat 
of an old story, and Belle had long since voted it dull. 

“Well, Nan, we’ve come down to two rooms in very 
truth, and in an old, old house, too, that will remind you of 
some of the oldest in the South, ’ ’ and he drew such a humor- 
ous and forlorn picture of their future abode that his wife felt 
that he had indeed taken her at her word, and that they would 
scaicely have a place to lay their heads, much less to live in 
any proper sense ; and when she stopped before the quaint 
and decrepit house without any front door ; when she fol- 
lowed her husband up the forlorn stairway to what seemed 
a side entrance with its most dismal outlook, she believed 
that the time for fortitude had come, in bitter truth. The 
hall was dark to her sun-blinded eyes, as it had been to Mil- 
dred’s, yet not so dark but that she saw doore open and felt 
herself scanned with an unblushing curiosity by slattern-look- 
ing women, her near neighbors, and the thought that they 
were so very near made her shiver. As for Belle, she did 
not take pains to hide her disgust. With a sinking heart and 
faltering courage the poor gentlewoman mounted the winding 
stairs, but before she reached the top there was a rush from 
an open doorway, and Mildred clasped her in close embrace. 

“ Welcome home !’’ she cried, in her clear, sweet, girlish 
voice. 

“ Home, Millie 1 what a mockery that word is in this 
strange, strange place !’’ she half whispered, half sobbed in 
her daughter’s ear. 

“ Courage, mamma. We promised papa we’d ask noth- 
ing better than he could ivfford," Mildred murmured. 


“ WELCOME HOME. 


r 57 


‘Don’t let him see tears — he has already put Fred down 
and is turning to welcome you to the best home he can 
offer.” 

Had the rooms been cells only, with but a pallet of stra\* 
upon the floors, Mrs. Jocelyn would have responded to that 
appeal, and she stepped forward resolved to smile and appear 
pleased with everything, no matter how stifled she might feel 
for want of space, air, and light 

But when she crossed the threshold into the spacious, sun- 
lighted room, and looked up at the high ceiling and across 
its wide area ; when she had glanced around and seen on 
every side the results of the strong spells laid upon stout Mrs. 
Wheaton by Mildred’s domestic magic, and the dainty 
touches with which the solid work had been supplemented, 
her face lighted up with a sweet surprise. 

“ Oh, oh y how much better this is than you led me to 
expect ! Is all this really ours ? Can we afford so large a 
room ? Here are the dear old things, too, with which I first 
went to housekeeping. ” Then stepping to her husband’s side 
she put her arm around his neck as she looked into his eyes 
and said, “ Martin, this is home. Thank God, it is home- 
like after all. With you and the children around me I can 
be more than content — I can be very happy in this place. I 
feared that we might be too crowded, and that the children 
might suffer. ’ ’ 

“ Of course you didn’t think of yourself, Nan. Millie’s 
the good fairy to thank for all this. The way she and an- 
other female divinity have conjured in these rooms the last 
three days is a matter wholly beyond the masculine mind.” 

“ Father did a great deal, too, and did it much better than 
you could expect from a man. But, come, I’m mistress of 
this small fraction of the venerable mansion till after break- 
fast, and then, mamma, I’ll put the baton of rule in your 
hands. I’ve burned my fingers and spoiled my complexion 


* 5 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


over the stove, and I don’t intend that a cold breakfast shah 
be the result. ’ ’ 

“Millie,” cried Belle, rushing out of the second room, 
which she had inspected in her lightning-like way before 
greeting her sister, “our room is lovely. You are a gem, 
an onyx, a fickle wild rose. It’s all splendid — a perpetual 
picnic place, to which we’ll bring our own provisions and 
cook ’em our own way. No boss biddies in this establish- 
ment It’s ever so much better than I expected after you 
once get here ; but as the hymn goes, ‘ How dark and dismal 
is the way ! ’ ” 

It was with difficulty that the children, wild over the nov- 
elty of it all, could be settled quietly at the table. It was 
the family’s first meal in a tenement-house. The father’s 
eyes grew moist as he looked around his board and said, deep 
in his heart, “ Never did a sweeter, fairer group grace a table 
in this house, although it has stood more than a century. If 
for their sakes I cannot be a man — ” 

‘ ‘ Martin, ’ ’ began his wife, her delicate features flushing a 
little, “ before we partake of this our first meal I want you 
all to join me in your hearts while I say from the depths of 
mine, God bless our home. ’ ’ 

An hour later, as he went down-town, Mr. Jocelyn finished 
his sentence. ‘ * If for the sake of such a wife and such chil- 
dren I cannot stop, I’m damned.” 


BELLE AND MILDRED . 


x 59 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BELLE AND MILDRED. 

T HE cosmopolitan bachelor living in apartments knows 
far more of Sanskrit than of a domestic woman’s feel- 
ings as she explores the place she must call her home. It 
may be a palace or it may be but two rooms in a decaying 
tenement, but the same wistful, intent look will reveal one of 
the deepest needs of her nature. Eve wept not so much for 
the loss of Eden as for the loss of home — the familiar place 
whose homeliest objects had become dear from association. 
The restless woman who has no home-hunger, no strong 
instinct to make a place which shall be a refuge for hersell 
and those she loves, is not the woman God created. She is 
the product of a sinister evolution ; she is akin to the birds 
that will not build nests, but take possession of those already 
constructed, ousting the rightful occupants. 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were unperverted ; they were 
womanly in every fibre, and the interest with which they 
planned, consulted, and dwelt upon each detail of their small 
household economy is beyond my power to interpret. They 
could have made the stateliest mansion in the city homelike ; 
they did impart to their two poor rooms the essential ele- 
ments of a home. It was a place which no one could enter 
without involuntary respect for the occupants, although aware 
of nothing concerning them except their poverty. 

“ Mrs. Atwood and Susan actually cried when we came to 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


160 

go,” Mrs. Jocelyn remarked as they were all busy together, 
“ and even old Mr. Atwood was wonderfully good for him. 
He and Roger put a great many harvest apples and vegeta- 
bles in a large box, and Mrs. Atwood added a jar of her nice 
butter, some eggs, and a pair of chickens. I told them that 
we must begin life again in a very humble way, and they just 
overflowed with sympathy and kindness, and I could scarcely 
induce them to take any money for the last week we were 
there. It was funny to see old Mr. Atwood : he wanted the 
money dreadfully — any one could see that, for a dollar is dear 
to his heart — but he also wanted to be generous like his 
wife, and to show his strong good-will. They sent heaps of 
love to you, Millie, and cordially invited us to visit them 
next summer ; they also offered to board us again for just as 
little as they could afford. Even Jotham appeared to have 
something on his mind, for he was as helpful as an elephant, 
and stood around, and stood around, but at last went off 
muttering to himself. ’ ’ 

” Millie,” said Belle indignantly, “ I think you treated 
Roger shamefully. After we returned from seeing you off, 
mamma and I went mooning up to that hill of yours looking 
toward the south, because you and papa were in that direc- 
tion. Suddenly we came upon Roger sitting there with his 
face buried in his hands. ‘ Are you ill ? ’ mamma asked, as 
if his trouble might have been a stomach-ache. He started 
up and looked white in the moonlight. ‘ She was cruel, ’ he 
said passionately ; * I only asked for friendship. I would 
have given my life for her, but she treated Jotham better than 
she did me, and she thinks I’m no better than he is — that 
I’m one of the farm animals.’ ‘ Mr. Atwood,’ mamma 
began, ‘ she did not mean to be cruel ’ — he interrupted her 
with an impatient gesture. ‘ The end hasn’t come yet,’ he 
muttered and stalked away. ’ ’ 

Mildred sat down with a little perplexed frown upon her 


BELLE AND MILDRED. 


161 


face. “ I’ m sure I meant him only kindness , ' ’ she said ; 
“ why will he be so absurd ?” 

“You had a queer way of showing your kindness,” snap- 
ped Belle. 

“What would you have me do? Encourage him to 
leave home, and all sorts of folly ?” 

“You can’t prevent his leaving home. Mark my words, 
he'll soon be in this city, and he’ll make his way too. He’s 
a good deal more of a man than your lily-fingered Mr. 
Arnold, and if he wants to be friendly to me and take me out 
sometimes, I won’t have him snubbed. Of course all my 
old friends will cut me dead.” 

“ Oh, if he will transfer his devotion to you, Belle, I’ll be 
as friendly as you wish. ’ ’ 

“ No, you’ve spoiled him for me or any one else. He’s 
fool enough to think there’ snot another girl in the world but 
Mildred Jocelyn, and he’ll get you if you don’t look out, for 
he has the most resolute look that I ever saw in any one’s 
eyes. The day before we came away something happened 
that took away my breath. A man brought a young horse 
which he said no one could manage. Roger went out and 
looked into the beast’s eyes, and the vicious thing bit at him 
and struck at him with his forefoot. Then as he tried to 
stroke his back he kicked up with both hind feet. Oh, he 
was a very Satan of a horse, and they had a rope around his 
head that would have held a ship. Roger went and got what 
he called a curb-bit, and almost in a twinkling he had slipped 
it on the horse, and without a moment’s hesitation he sprang 
upon his bare back. The horse then reared so that “ 
thought he’d fall over backward on Roger. Mamma fairly 
looked faint — it was right after dinner — Susan and the chil- 
dren were crying, his father and mother, and even the owner 
of the horse, were calling to him to get off, but he merely 
pulled one rein sharply, ana down the horse came on his 


162 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


four feet again. Instead of looking frightened he was coolly 
fastening the rope so as to have it out of the way. After let- 
ting the ugly beast rear and plunge and kick around in the 
road a few minutes, Roger turned his head toward a stone 
wall that separated the road from a large pasture field that 
was full of cows, and he went over the fence with a flying 
leap, at which we all screamed and shouted again. Then 
away they went round and round that field, the cows, 
with their tails in the air, careering about also, as much 
excited as we were. At last, when the horse found he 
couldn't throw him, he lay down and rolled. Roger 
was off in a second, and then sat on the beast’s head for 
a while so he couldn’t get up when he wanted to. At 
last he let the brute get up again, but he was no sooner on 
his feet than Roger was on his back, and away they went 
again till the horse was all in a foam, and Roger could guide 
him easily with one hand. He then leaped the tamed creature 
back into the road, and came trotting quietly to the kitchen 
door. Springing lightly down, and with one arm over the pant- 
ing horse’ s neck, he said quietly, ‘ Sue, bring me two or three 
lumps of sugar. ’ The horse ate them out of his hand, and 
then followed him around like a spaniel. His owner was 
perfectly carried away ; ‘ Jerusalem ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ I’ve 
never seen the beat of that. I offered you twenty- five dollars 
if you would break him, and I’ 11 make it thirty if at the end 
of a month you’ll train him to saddle and harness. He 
wasn’t worth a rap till you took him in hand.’ ‘ It’s a bar- 
gain,’ said Roger coolly, and then he whispered to me, 
4 That will buy me a pile of books. ’ That’ s the kind of a 
man that I believe in,” concluded Belle, nodding her head 
emphatically, "‘and I want you to understand that Roger 
Atwood and I are very good friends. ’ ’ 

Mildred meditatively bit her lip, and her cheeks had 
flushed with excitement at Belle’s story, but she would make 


BELLE AND MILDRED. 163 

no comment upon it in words. “ What does he want v/ith 
so many books ?’ ’ she asked, after a moment. 

“ You’ll see before you are gray.” 

“ Indeed ! has he taken you into his confidence, also ?” 

“That’s my affair. I believe in him, and so will you 
some day. He already knows more Latin than you do.” 

‘ ‘ That’ s not saying a great deal, ’ ’ replied Mildred, with a 
short, vexed laugh. “ How came he to know Latin ?” 

4 ‘ He studied it at school as you did. The fact is, you are 
so prejudiced you know nothing about him. He’s strong 
and brave, and he’ 11 do what he attempts. ’ ’ 

“ He’ll find that I am strong, too, in my way,” said Mil- 
dred coldly. “ He said something that hurt me more than 
I hurt him, and all I ask of him is to leave me alone. I 
wish him well, and all that, but we are not congenial. Com- 
plete success in his wild ambition wouldn’t make any differ- 
ence. He ought to remain at home and take care of his 
own people.” 

“ Well, I’m glad he’s coming to New York, and I hope 
for my sake you’ll treat him politely.” 

‘ 4 Oh, certainly for your sake, Belle. Let us all stick to 
that.” 

“ Belle’s a mere child,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, with her low 
laugh. 

“I’m sixteen years old, I thank you ; that is, I shall be 
soon ; and I know a real man from the ghost of one. 

“Belle,” cried Mildred, in a tone she rarely used, “1 
will neither permit nor pardon any such allusions. 

“Come, girls,” expostulated their mother, 44 our nestis 
too small for any disagreements, and we have a great deal too 
much to do for such useless discussions. I’m sorry with 
Millie that Roger is bent on leaving home, for I think his 
parents need him, and he could do well in the country. Th« 
city is too crowded already.” 


M 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


4 ‘ He’ 11 make his way through the crowd, ’ ’ persisted Belle. 

44 Does his father or mother know of his plans ?” 

44 Well, to tell the truth, I don’t know very much about 
his plans. He talks little concerning himself, but when he 
took me out to drive the day after Millie left, he said he had 
decided to come to New York and get an education, and that 
if I’d let him know where we lived he’d come and see me 
occasionally. I said, ‘ What will they do at home without 
you ? * and he replied, 4 I can do more for them away from 
home by and by than here.’ Now, mamma, you’ll let him 
come to see me, won’t you ?” 

“Certainly, Belle. I’ll be reasonable in this respect. I 
know young people need company and recreation. My only 
aim has ever been to secure you and Millie good company, 
and I hope your love for me, Belle, will lead you to shun 
any other. As we are now situated you must be very, very 
cautious in making new acquaintances. Young Mr. Atwood 
is a good, honest-hearted fellow, and I think Millie is a little 
prejudiced against him.” 

“ Very well, mamma, I’ll be all smiles so long as he de- 
votes himself to Belle ; but he must stop there most em- 
phatically. ’ ’ 

Thus with busy tongues and busier hands they talked of 
the past and the future while they unpacked and stowed away 
their belongings with almost the same economy of space tha . 
is practised on shipboard. Mrs. Wheaton w r as introduced, 
and she at once became a fast ally of Mrs. Jocelyn as well 
as of Mildred. 

“ I ’ope yer’ 11 hal ways remember yer 'ave a neighbor that’s 
’andy and villing,” she said, as she courtesied herself out. 

‘ Hit’s too bad,” she muttered, on her way back to her 
room, “ that she’s ’ad to come down to this, for she’s a born 
lady ; she’s has much a lady as hany ’oo howned this ’ouse 
a ’undred years hago.” 


BELLE AND MILDRED. 


i6> 

Thus their life began in the old mansion, and from its 
humble shelter they looked abroad to see what they could 
obtain from the great indifferent world without. 

“ Belle and I must not be idle an hour longer than we can- 
lot help,” said Mildred resolutely, on the following day; 

and the only thing is to find what it would be best to do. 1 
am going out to try to sell the work I did in the country, and 
see if I cannot get orders for more of the same kind. My 
great hope is that I can work at home. I wish I knew 
enough to be a teacher, but like all the rest I know a little 
of everything, and not much of anything. Fancy work will 
be my forte, if I can only sell it. I do hope I sha’n’t meet 
any one I know,” and heavily veded she took her way with 
her dainty fabrics toward the region of fashionable shops. 
Those, however, who were willing to buy offered her so little 
that she was discouraged, and she finally left the articles ai a 
store whose proprietor was willing to receive them on com 
mission. 

“ You must not calculate on speedy sale,” the lady in 
charge remarked. “ People are very generally out of town 
yet, and will be for some time. Your work is pretty, how- 
ever, and will sell, I think, later on, although in these hard 
times useful articles are chiefly in demand.” 

“ Please do your best for me,” said Mildred appealingly, 
“and please let me know what you think will sell. Pm 
willing to do any kind of work I can that will bring the 
money we need.” After receiving some suggestions she 
bought more material, and then sat down to work in the hope 
that the returning citizens would purchase her articles so 
liberally that she could do her share toward the family's 
support. 

She did not shrink from labor, but with the false pride so 
general she did shrink morbidly from meeting those who 
knew her in the past, and from their learning where and how 


i66 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


she lived. She was wholly bent on seclusion until their for- 
tunes were greatly mended, fondly hoping that her father 
would rally such a constituency from his Southern acquaint- 
ance that he would soon command a fine salary. And the 
expectation was not an unreasonable one, had Mr. Jocelyn 
been able to work with persistent energy for a few years. 
The South was impoverished, and while a remunerative trade 
might be built up from it, patient and exceedingly aggressive 
labor would be required to secure such a result. It is the 
curse of opium, however, to paralyze energy, and to render 
all effort fitful and uncertain. He should have written scores 
of letters daily, and attended to each commission with the 
utmost promptness and care, but there were times when 
the writing of a single letter was a burden, and too often it 
was vague and pointless like the condition of his mind when 
it was written. Mildred did not dream of this, and his em- 
ployers felt that they must give him time before expecting 
very much return for his effort. Since he attended to rou- 
tine duties fairly well there was no cause for complaint, 
although something in his manner often puzzled them a little. 
It was Mildred’s belief that renewed prosperity would soon 
enable them to live in a way entitling them to recognition in 
the society to which Arnold belonged. If thus much could 
be accomplished she felt that her own and her lover’s faith- 
fulness would accomplish the rest. They were both young, 
and could afford to wait. 

“ The world brings changes for the better sometimes, ” she 
thought, as she plied her needle, “ as well as for the worse ; 
and no matter what his proud mother thinks, I'm sure I 
could take better care of him than she can. Whether they 
know it or not, the course of his family toward him is one of 
cold-blooded cruelty and repression. If he could live in a 
genial, sunny atmosphere of freedom, affection, and respect, 
his manhood would assert itself, he would grow stronger, 


BELLE AND MILDRED . 167 

and might do as much in his way as Roger Atwood ever can 
in his. He has a fine mind and a brilliant imagination ; 
but he is chilled, embittered, and fettered by being constantly 
reminded of his weakness and dependence ; and now posi- 
tive unhappiness is added to his other misfortunes, although 
I think my little note will do him no harm’ ’ — she dreamed 
that it might be carried next to his heart instead of moulder- 
ing where the faithless Jotham had dropped it. “I shall not 
punish him for his family’s harsh pride, from which he suffers 
even more than I do. Turn, turn, fortune’s wheel ! We 
are down now, but that only proves that we must soon come 
up again. Being poor and living in a tenement isn’t so 
dreadful as I feared, and we can stand it for a while. As 
stout Mrs. Wheaton says, ‘ There’s vorse troubles hin the 
vorld. ’ Now that we know and have faced the worst we can 
turn our hopes and thoughts toward the best.” 

Poor child ! It was well the future was veiled. 

The mode of Belle’s activity was a problem, but that incip- 
ient young woman practically decided it herself. She was 
outspoken in her preference. 

“ I don’t want to work cooped up at home,” she said. 
“ I'd go wild if I had to sit and stitch all day. School half 
killed me, although there was always some excitement to be 
had in breaking the rules.” 

“ Naughty Belle !” cried her mother. 

“ Never naughty when you coax, mamma. I’d have been 
a saint if they’ d only taken your tactics with me, but they 
didn’ t know enough, thank fortune, so I had my fun. If 
they had only looked at me as you do, and put me on my 
honor, and appealed to my better feelings and all that, and 
laughed with me and at me now and then, I’d been fool 
enough to have kept every rule. You always knew, 
mamma, just how to get me right under your thumb, in spite 
of myself. ” 


1 68 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ I nope I may always keep you there, my darling, in 
spite of this great evil world, out into which you wish to go. 
It is not under my thumb, Belle, but under my protecting 
wing that I wish to keep you. ’ ’ 

“ Dear little mother,” faltered the warm-hearted girl, hei 
eyes filling with tears, “ don’t you see I’ve grown to be too 
big a chicken to be kept under your wing ? I must go out 
and pick for myself, and bring home a nice morsel now and 
then for the little mother, too. Yes, I admit that I want 
to go out into the world. I want to be where everything is 
bright and moving. It’s my nature, and what’s the use of 
fighting nature ? You and Millie can sit here like two doves 
billing and cooing all day. I must use my wings. I’d die 
in a cage, even though the cage was home. But never fear, 
I’ll come back to it every night, and love it in my way just 
as much as you do in yours. You must put me in a store, 
mamma, where there are crowds of people going and 
coming. They won’ t do me any more harm than when I 
used to meet them in the streets, but they’ 11 amuse me. My 
eyes and hands will be busy, and I won’t die from moping. 
I’ve no more education than a kitten, but shop-girls are not 
expected to know the dead languages, and I can talk my 
own fast enough. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed you can 1” cried Mildred. 

“ But, Belle,” said her mother, who was strongly in- 
clined toward Mildred’s idea of seclusion until fortune’s 
wheel had turned, ‘ ‘ how will you like to have it known in 
after years that you were a shop-girl ?’ ’ 

“ Yes,” added Mildred, “ you may have to wait on some 
whom you invited to your little company last spring. I 
wish you could find something to do that would be quiet 
and secluded.” 

“ Oh, nonsense 1” cried Belle impatiently. “ We can’t 
hide like bears that go into hollow trees and suck their paws 


BELLE AND MILDRED. 


169 


for half a dozen years, more or less” — Belles zoological 
ideas were startling rather than accurate — “ I don’t want to 
hide and cower. Why should we ? We’ve done nothing 
we need be ashamed of. Father’s been unfortunate ; so 
have hundreds and thousands of other men in these hard 
times. Roger showed me an estimate, cut from a news- 
paper, of how many had failed during the last two or three 
years — why it was an army of men. We ain’ t alone in our 
troubles, and Roger said that those who cut old acquaint- 
ances because they had been unfortunate were contemptible 
snobs, and the sooner they were found out the better ; and 
I want to find out my score or two of very dear friends who 
have eaten ice-cream at our house. I hope I may have a 
chance to wait on ’em. I’ll do it with the air of a princess,” 
she concluded, assuming a preternatural dignity, ‘ ‘ and if 
they put on airs I’ll raise the price of the goods, and tell 
them that since they are so much above other people they 
ought to pay double price for everything. I don’t believe 
they’ll all turn up their noses at me,” she added, after a 
moment, her face becoming wistful and gentle in its expres- 
sion as she recalled some favorites whose whispered confi- 
dences and vows of eternal friendship seemed too recent to 
be meaningless and empty. 

The poor child would soon learn that, although school- 
girls’ vows are rarely false, they are usually as fragile and 
transient as harebells. She had dropped into a different 
world, and the old one would fade like a receding star. She 
would soon find that her only choice must be to make new 
associations and friendships and find new pleasures ; and this 
her mercurial, frank, and fearless nature would incline her to 
do very promptly. 

With Mildred it was different. The old life was almost 
essential to her, and it contained eveiything that her hear* 
most craved. 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


170 

Her courage was not Belle’s natural and uncalculating in- 
trepidity. She would go wherever duty required her pres- 
ence, she would sacrifice herself for those she loved, and she 
was capable of martyrdom for a faith about as free from doc- 
trinal abstractions as the simple allegiance of the sisters of 
Bethany to the Christ who “ loved ” them. Notwithstanding 
the truth of all this, it has already been shown that she was a 
rery human girl. Brave and resolute she could be, but she 
would tremble and escape if possible. Especially would she 
shrink from anything tending to wound her womanly deli- 
cacy and a certain trace of sensitive Southern pride. Above 
all things she shrank from that which threatened her love. 
This was now her life, and its absorbing power colored all her 
thoughts and plans. Both conscience and reason, however, 
convinced her that Belle was right, and that the only chance 
for the vigorous, growing girl was some phase of active life. 
With her very limited attainments, standing behind a counter 
seemed the only opening that the family would consider, and 
it was eventually agreed upon, after a very reluctant consent 
from her father. 


BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF . 


iy.T 


CHAPTER XVII. 

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF. 

O NLY the least of Belle’s difficulties were past when she 
obtained consent to stand behind a counter. With 
her mother she made many a weary expedition through the 
hot streets, and was laughed at in some instances for even 
imagining that employment could be obtained at the dullest 
season of the year. As soon as their errand was made known 
they were met hy a brief and often a curt negative. Mrs. 
Jocelyn would soon have been discouraged, but Belle’s black 
eyes only snapped with irritation at their poor success. 
“ Give up?” she cried. “ No, not if I have to work for 
nothing to get a chance. Giving up isn’t my style, at least 
not till I’m tired of a thing; besides it’s a luxury poor 
people can’t indulge in.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn felt that the necessity which compelled this 
quest was a bitter one, and her heart daily grew sorer that 
she had not resolutely saved part of every dollar earned by 
her husband in the old prosperous times. As she saw the 
poor young creatures standing wearily, and often idly and 
listlessly, through the long summer days, as her woman’s 
eyes detected in the faces of many the impress of the pain 
they tried to conceal but could never forget, she half guessed 
that few laborers in the great city won their bread more hardly 
than these slender girls, doomed in most instances never to 
know a vigorous and perfected womanhood. M Belle, my 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


i'7? 

child, how can you stand during these long, hot days ? It’s 
providential that we can’ t find any place. 

“Well, mamma, I’m not very well up in the ways of 
Providence. I fear the dull season has more to do with it 
Nevertheless I’m going to make a situation if I can’t find 
one. ’ ' 

She had in her mind a shop on Sixth Avenue, which had 
the appearance of a certain ‘ ‘ go and life, ’ ’ as she phrased it. 

‘ ‘ There’ s a strong-willed, wide-awake man back of that 
establishment, ’ ’ she had said to herself more than once, ‘ * and 
if I could get at him I believe he’ d give me work, but the 
hateful old foreman stands in the way like a dragon.’’ 

She and her mother had been curtly informed by this well- 
dressed ‘ ‘ dragon, ’ ’ which parted its hair like a woman, that 
“ there was no use in bothering the proprietor ; he never 
added to his help in August — the idea was absurd. 

One morning after Mrs. Jocelyn had about given up the 
hope of obtaining a place until the autumn trade revived — as 
far as it would revive in those languid years — Belle started 
out alone, heavily veiled, and with her purpose also veiled 
from her mother and Mildred. She went straight to the 
shop on Sixth Avenue that had taken her fancy, and walked 
up to the obnoxious foreman without a trace of hesitation. 
“ I wish to see Mr. Schriven,’’ she said, in a quiet, decisive 
manner. 

“ He is very busy, madam, and does not like to be dis- 
turbed. I will attend to anything you wish.’ 

“ Thank you ; then please direct me to the proprietor’s 
office without delay.’’ 

After a moment’s hesitation the man complied. This 
veiled presence had the appearance of a gentlewoman and 
was decided in manner. Therefore he led the way to a srnaW 
private office, and said, “ A lady, sir, who insists on seeing 
you,’’ and then discreetly closed the door and departed. 


BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF. 


x 73 


The man of business allowed his pen to glide to the end 
of his sentence before turning to greet his visitor. Belle in 
the mean time had advanced to a point from which she 
could look directly into his face, for, child though she was, 
she understood that it was her difficult task first to obtain a 
hearing, and then to disarm his anger at her intrusion. 
Aware, however, that she had nothing to lose and everything 
to gain by the adventure, her natural fearlessness and quick- 
ness of tongue carried her through. She had already guessed 
that an appeal for employment, even the most pitiful, would 
meet with a flat, prompt refusal, therefore she had resolved 
on different tactics. 

At last the man lifted his head in his quick, imperious way, 
asking, as he turned toward her, “ What is your business with 
me, madam ?’ ' 

“ I like your store very much/" Belle remarked quietly. 

Mr. Schriven now really glanced at her, and he found her 
brilliant black eyes and fair flushed face such pleasing ob- 
jects of contemplation that he was content to look for a 
moment while he puzzled a little over the unexpected appa- 
rition. He then smiled satirically and said, “ What follows 
from so momentous a fact?” 

‘ ‘ It follows that I would rather be employed here than in 
other stores that I do not like so well. My mother and I 
have visited nearly every one, and I like yours best. 

“ Weil, this is cool. You and your mother were refused 
employment at this season at all the others, were you not ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And my foreman declined your services here, also, did 
he not ?” 

“ Yes, sir, but I was sure that if I saw you I should obtain 
my wish. There’s a life and snap abcut this place that I 
didn’ t see elsewhere, and therefore I knew a live man, and 


l 74 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


not a machine, was back of it, and that if I could see and 
talk with him he’d give me a chance.” 

“You are exceedingly flattering,” said the man, with an- 
other satirical smile. “ Has it not occurred to you that your 
course is just tinged with assurance ?” 

“ Have I said or done anything unbecoming to a lady ?” 
asked Belle indignantly. 

Mr. Schriven laughed good-naturedly, for Belle’s snapping 
eyes and brusque ways were beginning to interest him. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I forgot that you American working- women are all 
ladies. I am told that you speak of certain of your number 
as ‘ scrub-ladies ' and ‘ washer-ladies. 

“You may call me a shop-girl, sir, as soon as I am in 
your employ.” 

“ And why not now ?” 

‘ ‘ Because I’ m not yet a shop-girl, and never have been 
one. I’ve often bought goods with my mother in this very 
store, and I come from as good blood as there is in the 
South. A few months ago my social position was as good as 
yours, and now that we have been unfortunate and I must 
work, I see no presumption in asking you to your face for 
honest work.” 

“ Not at all, my dear young lady,” resumed Mr. Schri- 
ven, still maintaining his half-amused, half-ironical manner, 
“ but I must inform you that I cannot afford to employ my 
social equals as shop-girls.” 

‘ ‘ When I enter your employ of my own free will, ’ ’ re- 
sponded Belle promptly, “I the same as promise to obey 
all the rules and regulations of your establishment, and I’ll 
do it, too. What’s more, I’ll sell so many goods in dull 
times and all times that you can well afford to make a place 
for me if you have none. One thing is certain — I’m going 
to get work, and my work will repay those who employ me 
a hundred times.” 


BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF , . 


175 

“Well, you are an odd fish,” Mr. Schriven ejaculated; 
“ I beg your pardon, you are not yet in my employ — you 
are an eccentric young lady, and a very young one, too, to 
be making your way in the world in this irresistible style. 
You mean what you say, that if employed you will put on 
no airs and conform to rules V* 

“ I mean just what I say.” 

Mr. Schriven fell into a foxy fit of musing, and there rose 
before his mind the pale face and dragged, weary, listless look 
of a girl now standing at the ribbon counter. “ She’ll break 
down when hard work begins again,” he thought ; “ she’s 
giving way now with nothing much to do. To be sure she 
has been here a long time, and has done her best and all that, 
but her day is past, and here’s plenty of young flesh and 
blood to fill her place. This one is rather young, but she’s 
smart as a whip — she’s full of mettle and is fresh and healthy- 
looking. It won’t do to have pale girls around, for it gives 
cursed busybodies a chance to *.>.nt about women standing all 
day. (Out of the corner of his eye he measured Belle from 
head to foot. ) She can stand, and stand it, too, for a long while. 
She’ s compact and stout. She’s built right for the business. 
At last he said, aloud, “ In case I should so far depart from 
my usual custom and make a place for you, as you suggest, 
what do you propose to charge for the services you rate so 
highly ?' ’ 

* 1 What you choose to give. 

“ Well,” was the laughing answer, “ there’s method in 
your madness. Take that pen and write what X dic- 
tate. ’ ’ 

Belle wrote a few sentences in a dashing, but sufficiently 
legible hand. 

“ You will have to practise a little, and aim at distinctness 
and clearness. That’s more than style in business,” Mr. 
Schriven continued deliberately, for the young creature wa* 


176 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


so delightfully fresh and original that he began to regard hef 
as an agreeable episode in the dull August day. “ I’ll make 
a place for you, as you say, if you will come for three dollars 
a week and comply with the rules. You are to do just as 
you are bid by those having charge of your department, and 
you had better keep on their right side. You are not to 
come to me again, remember, unless I send for you, ’ ' he 
concluded, with his characteristic smile ; “ an event that you 
must not look forward to, for I assure you such interviews 
are rare in my experience. Come next Monday at seven if 
you agree to these conditions." 

“ I agree, and I thank you," the girl promptly answered, 
her brilliant eyes glowing with triumph, for thoughts like 
these were in her mind : “ How I can crow over mamma 
and Millie, who said this very morning there was no use in 
trying ! Won’t it be delicious to hand papa enough money 
to pay the rent for a month !" No wonder the child’s face 
was radiant. 

The thoughts of her employer were of quite a different 
character. He gave her a look of bold admiration, and said 
familiarly, “ By Jupiter, but you are a daisy !" 

Belle’s manner changed instantly. He caught a swift, 
indignant flash in her dark eyes, and then she laid her hand 
on the door-knob and said, with the utmost deference and 
distance of manner, “ I will try to attend to the duties of 
my station in a way that will cause no complaint. Good- 
morning, sir." 

“ Wait a moment," and Mr. Schriven touched a bell, and 
immediately the foreman appeared. 

“ Give this girl a place next Monday ai the ribbon coun- 
ter," he said, in the quick staccato tones of one who is ab- 
solute and saves time even in the utterance of words. “ I 
also wish to see you two hours hence ’’ 

The man bowed, as if all were a matter of course, but 


BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF. 


17,1 

when he was alone with Belle he said sharply, “You think 
you got ahead of me.” 

He would indeed have been the most malicious of dragons 
had not Belle's smiling face and frank words disarmed him. 

“ I did get ahead of you, and you know it, but you are too 
much of a man to hold a grudge against a poor girl who has 
her bread to earn. Now that I am under your charge I 
promise that I’ 11 do my best to please you. ’ ’ 

“ Very well, then ; we’ll see. I’ll have my eye on you, 
and don’t you forget it.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred laughed, sighed, and shook 
their heads over Belle’s humorous account of her morning’s 
adventure. They praised her motive, they congratulated her 
on her success, but her mother said earnestly, “ My dear 
little girl, don’t get bold and unwomanly. We had all bet- 
ter starve than come to that. It would wound me to the 
heart if your manner should ever cause any one to think of 
you otherwise than as the pure-hearted, innocent girl that 
you are. But alas ! Belle, the world is too ready to think 
evil. You don’t know it yet at all.” 

She knew it better than they thought. There was one 
phase of her interview with Mr. Schriven that she had not 
revealed, well knowing that her gentle mother would be in- 
exorable in her decision that the shop must not even be 
entered again. The girl was rapidly acquiring a certain 
shrewd hardihood. She was not given to sentiment, and 
was too young to suffer deeply from regret for the past. In- 
deed she turned buoyantly toward the future, while at the 
same time she recognized that life had now become a keen 
battle among others in like condition. 

“ I don’t intend to starve,” she said to herself, “ nor to 
bite off my own nose because the world is not just what 
mother and Millie think it ought to be. Papa would be in- 
clined to break that man’s head if J told him what he said 


178 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and how he looked. But what would come of it ? Papa 
would go to jail and we into the street. Unless papa can 
get up in the world again very fast, Millie and I shall find that 
we have got to take care of ourselves and hold our tongues. 

I hadn't been around with mamma one day before I 
learned that much. Mamma and Millie were never made to 
be working-women. They are over-refined and high-toned, 
but I can’t afford too much of that kind of thing on three 
dollars a week. I'm a ‘ shop lady ' — that’s the kind of lady 
I‘m to be — and I must come right down to what secures suc- 
cess without any nonsense. 

In justice it should be said that Belle's practical acceptance 
of the situation looked forward to no compromise with evil ; 
but she had seen that she must come in contact with the 
world as it existed, and that she must resolutely face the 
temptations incident to her lot rather than vainly seek to 
escape from them. Alas ! her young eyes had only caught a 
faint glimpse of the influences that would assail her untrained, 
half-developed moral nature. Body and soul would be taxed 
to the utmost in the life upon which she was entering. 

On the Sunday following Mr. Jocelyn slept so late that 
none of the family went to church. Indeed, since their old 
relations were broken up they scarcely knew where to go, and 
Mildred no more felt that she could return to the fashionable 
temple in which Mrs. Arnold worshipped than present her- 
self at the elegant mansion on Fifth Avenue. The family 
spent the after part of the day in one of the most secluded 
nooks they could find in Central Park, and Mildred often 
looked back upon those hours as among the brightest in the 
shrouded past. Mr. Jocelyn gauged his essential stimulant 
so well that he was geniality itself ; Belle was more exuberant 
than usual ; Fred and Minnie rejoiced once more in flowers 
and trees and space to run Mrs. Jocelyn’s low, sweet laugh 
was heard again and again, for those who made her life were 


BELLE LA UNCHES HERSELF. 


179 


all around her, and they seemed happier than they had been 
for many a long, weary day. For a brief time at least the 
sun shone brightly through a rift in the clouds gathering 
around them. 

Beyond the fact that Belle had found a place, little was 
said to Mr. Jocelyn, for the subject seemed very painful to 
him, and the young girl started off Monday morning in high 
spirits. The foreman met her in a curt, business-like way, 
and assigned her to her place, saying that the girl in charge 
of the goods would tell her about the marks, prices, etc. 
This girl and her companions received Belle very coldly, nor 
did they thaw out before her sunshine. As a matter both of 
duty and interest the young woman upon whom the task 
devolved explained all that was essential in a harsh, con- 
strained voice, and the others ignored the new-comer during 
business hours. Belle paid no attention to them, but gave 
her whole mind to the details of her work, making rapid 
progress. “ I'll have time for them by and by, ' ' she mut- 
tered, ‘ ‘ and can manage them all the better when I know as 
much as they do. ' ’ 

She saw, too, that the foreman had his eye upon her and 
her companions, so she assumed the utmost humility and 
docility, but persisted in being told and retold all she wished 
to know. Since she observed that it was the foreman's eye 
and not good-will which constrained the cold, unsympathetic 
instruction received, she made no scruple in taxing the giver 
to the utmost. 

When at last they went to the room in which they ate theii 
lunch, the girls treated her as if she were a leper ; but just 
to spite them she continued as serene as a May morning, 
either acting as if she did not see them or treating them as if 
they were the most charming young women she had ever 
met. She saw with delight that her course aggravated them 
and yet gave no cause for complaint. 


WITHOUT A HOME 


160 

As soon as permitted she hastened home, and was glad tj 
lie down all the evening from sheer fatigue, but she made 
light of her weariness, concealed the treatment she had re- 
ceived from the girls, and the dejection it was beginning to 
occasion in spite of her courage ; she even made the little 
home group laugh by her droll accounts of the day. Then 
they all petted and praised and made so much of her that 
her spirits rose to their usual height, and she said confidently, 
as she went to a long night’s rest, “ Don’t you worry, little 
mother ; I didn’ t expect to get broken in to my work without 
a backache.” 

The next day it was just the same, but Belle knew now 
what to charge for the ribbons, or, if she was not sure, the 
others were obliged, under the eye of the inexorable foreman 
— who for some reason gave this counter a great deal of at- 
tention — to tell her correctly, so she began to lie in wait for 
customers. Some came to her of their own accord, and 
they smiled back into her eager, smiling face. 

In two or three instances her intent black eyes and manner 
seemed to attract attention and arrest the steps of those who 
had no intention of stopping. One case was so marked that 
the alert foreman drew near to note the result. An elderly 
lady, whose eye Belle had apparently caught by a look ot 
such vivacity and interest that the woman almost felt that she 
had been spoken to, came to the girl, saying, “ Well, my 
child, what have you that is pretty to-day?” 

‘‘Just what will please you, madam." 

“ You please me, whether your ribbons will or not It’s 
pleasant for a customer to be looked at as if she were not a 
nuisance,” she added significantly, and in atone that Belle’s 
companions, with their cold, impassive faces, could not fail 
to hear “You may pick out something nice for one of my 
little granddaughters. ’ ’ 

Dimpling with smiles and pleasure, Belle obeyed. Feel 


BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF. 


l8l 


ing that the eye of the arbiter of their fates was upon them, 
the young women near might have been statues in their rigid 
attitudes. Only the hot blood mounting to their faces betray- 
ed their anger. There was evidently something wrong at 
the ribbon counter — something repressed, a smouldering and 
increasing indignation, a suggestion of rebellion. So the 
foreman evidently thought, from his frequent appearances ; 
so the floor-walker clearly surmised, for with imperious 
glances and words he held each one sternly to her duty. 
Belle was smiling and working in the midst of a gathering 
storm, and she was becoming conscious of it. So far from 
cowering, her indignation was fast rising, and there was an 
ominous glow kindling in her dark eyes. Their seemingly 
unwarranted hostility and jealousy were beginning to incense 
her. She believed she had as much right there as they had, 
and she resolved to maintain her right. Catching an ireful 
glance from the girl in charge of the counter, she returned 
it with interest. Even this spark came very near kindling 
the repressed fires into an open flame, regardless of con- 
sequences. The bread of these girls was at stake, but 
women are not calculating when their feelings are deeply 
disturbed. 

At last, just as the wretched afternoon was ending, and 
preparations to close were in progress, a pale, thin girl, with a 
strange and rather reckless look, came in, and, sitting down 
before Belle, fixed her gaunt eyes upon her. 

‘ ‘ So you were heartless enough to take my place away 
from me ?” she said slowly, after a moment. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” answered Belle indig- 
nantly. 

“ Yes, you do know what she means, you little black 
snake in the grass,” whispered one of the girls in her ear 
while pretending to put a box upon the shelf. 

Belle whirled upon her with such a vivid and instantaneous 


182 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


flash of anger that the girl stepped back precipitately and 
dropped the box. 

Just at this moment Mr. Schriven, in the act of departure, 
came out of his office and witnessed the whole scene. He 
stopped and smiled broadly. The foreman had informed 
him from time to time of the little “comedy” progressing 
at the ribbon counter, and the two potentates felt quite in- 
debted to Belle for a sensation in the dullest of dull seasons, 
especially as the girl’s conduct was wholly in the line of their 
wishes, regulations, and interests. “ She’s as plucky as a 
terrier,” the echo of his chief had said, “ and the time will 
come when she’ 11 sell more goods than any two girls in the 
store. You made a ten-strike in effecting that exchange.” 

It was rich sport for them to see her fiery spirit arousing 
and yet defying the intense and ill-concealed hostility of her 
companions — a hostility, too, that was extending beyond the 
ribbon counter, and had been manifesting itself by whisper- 
ing, significant nods, and black looks toward the poor child 
all the afternoon ; but so far from shrinking before this con- 
centration of ill-will Belle had only grown more indignant, 
more openly resentful, and unable to maintain her resolute 
and tantalizing serenity. 

Feeling that it would compromise his dignity and authority 
even to appear to notice what was going forward, Mr. Schri- 
ven wrapped himself in his greatness and passed down the 
shop, sweeping the excited group — that was restrained for 
the moment by his presence — with a cold, nonchalant glance, 
from which, however, nothing escaped. When in the street 
his characteristic smile reappeared. 

“ By the Lord Harry !” he muttered, “ if she isn’t the 
gamiest bit of flesh and blood that I’ ve seen in a long time ) 
She’s worth looking after.” 

Since his eye and restraining presence, however, were nov 
absent from the store, there would have been no small tumuli 


BELLE LA UNCHES HERSELF. 


183 


it the ribbon counter had not Belle by her straightforward, 
fearless manner brought things to a speedy issue. There 
were now no customers in the shop, and the discipline of the 
day was practically over, therefore the girl on whom Belle had 
turned so passionately, having reached a safe distance, said, 
outspokenly, “ I'll say it now, so all can hear, even if I lose 
my place for it. You are a mean, p’isinis little black snake in 
the grass. We all know how you got this girl out of the 
place she’s had for years, and I want you to understand that 
if you stay you’ 11 have a hot time of it. ’ ’ 

“ And I want^ww to understand that if I’ve a right to stay, 
I will stay,” cried Belle, in a ringing voice. “I'm not 
afraid of you, nor a thousand like you. Either you’ re all cats 
to treat a young girl as you’ve treated me the last two days, 
or else there’s something that I don’t understand. But I’m 
going to understand it here and now. You hold your tongue, 
and let this girl speak who says I’ve taken her place. She’s 
the one I’m to deal with. But first let me say howl got this 
place — I asked for it. That’s the whole story, and I didn’t 
know I was taking it from any one else. ’ ’ 

Belle’s courageous and truth-stamped manner began to 
create a diversion in her favor, and all near listened with her 
to what the dismissed girl might say. The latter did not in 
the least respond to Belle’s energy, but after a long, weary sigh 
she began, without raising her head from her hand as she sat 
leaning on the counter, “ Whether you’ re right or wrong, I'm 
too badly used up to quarrel with you or to answer :n any 
such gunpowdery fashion. I’m dead beat, but I thought I’d 
like to come in and see you all once more, and my old place, 
and who was standing in it. You are at the beginning, my 
pert one. If I was as young and strong as you I wouldn’ t 
come and stand here.” 

“ How is your mother?” asked the girl in charge of the 
counter. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


184 

“She’s dying, starving,” was the reply, in the same 
dreary, apathetic tone, and black looks were again directed 
toward Belle. 

She heeded them not, however. For a moment her eyes 
dilated with horror, then she sprang to the girl, and taking 
her hands exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Good God ! What do you mean ? 
Let me go home with you. ” 

The girl looked at her steadfastly, and then said, “Yes, 
come home with me. That’s the best way to understand it 
all.” 

“We’ll bring your mother something by and by,” said 
two or three of the girls as the poor creature rose slowly to 
follow Belle, who was ready instantly, and whose course com- 
pelled a suspension of judgment on the part ©f those even 
the most prejudiced against her. 


“/ BELIEVE IN YOU." 


185 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“I BELIEVE IN YOU." 

“ /'~'*OME," cried Belle impatiently, as they made their 
v^/ way down Sixth Avenue, which was crowded at 
that hour ; “ why do you walk so slowly ? If my mother 
was as badly off as you say yours is, I'd fly to her." 

‘ 4 No, you wouldn’ t, if you had scarcely eaten anything for 
two days." 

“ What !" Belle exclaimed, stopping short and looking at 
her companion to see if she were in earnest. Something in 
her expression caused the impulsive child to seize her hand 
and drag her into a bakery near. Then snatching out her 
little purse she thrust it into the girl’s hands and said, 
“ Here, take all I have and buy what you like best." 

But instead of buying anything, the stranger looked wist- 
fully into the excited and deeply sympathetic face, and said 
slowly, ‘ ‘ I don’ t believe you’ re bad after all. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, I’m bad enough — bad as most girls of my age," 
said the innocent girl recklessly, “ but I’m not bad enough 
to keep back a penny if I knew any one was hungry. Stop 
looking at me and buy what you like, or else let me do it. 
Take home some of this jelly-cake to your mother. That 
would tempt nwy appetite if it ever needed any tempting. I 
half believe you are shamming all this, you act so queer. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Come with me, ’ ’ said the girl, for the people in the store 
were looking at them curiously. When in the street she con- 
tinued, “You are not bad. What is your name ?" 


[86 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ Belle Jocelyn.” 

. “ My name is Clara Bute. I am hungry. I’m faint foi 
food, but may it choke me if I eat any before I take some- 
thing home to mother ! Cake is not what either of us need, 
although it made me ravenous to see it. You haven’t much 
money here, Belle, and small as the sum is, I don’t know 
when I can repay it. ’ ’ 

4 4 Oh, stop that kind of talk, ’ ’ cried Belle ; 4 4 you’ 11 drive 
me wild. Let us get what your mother does want and take it 
to her without another word. ’ ’ 

They purchased bread and milk, a little tea, a bit of beef, 
a bundle of kindling-wood, and then Belle’s slender funds 
gave out. With these they turned into a side street and 
soon reached a tall tenement. 

44 Oh,” sighed Clara, 44 how can I climb those dreadful 
stairs ! We live at the top.” 

44 Drink some of the milk,” said Belle kindly, 44 and 
then let me carry everything. ’ ’ 

44 I guess I’ll have to or I'll never get up at all.” Slowly 
and painfully she mounted flight after flight, sitting down at 
last and resting after each ascent. “ I didn’t — realize — I 
was so weak, ’ ’ she panted. 

44 Tell me your room,” said Belle, 44 and I’ll come back 
and help you.” 

44 It’ s the — last one — back — top floor. I’ ve given out. ’ ’ 

Belle left her sitting on the stairs and soon reached the 
door, which had been left slightly ajar for air, for the evening 
was sultry. She pushed it open with her foot, since her 
hands were so full, and with her eyes fixed on the articles she 
was carrying so as to drop nothing, she crossed the small 
room to a table and put them down before looking around. 

44 There’s some — mistake,” said a very low, hollow voice. 

Belle was almost transfixed by eyes as black as her own, 
gleaming out of cavernous sockets and from the most emaci- 


**/ BELIEVE IN YOU." 


187 


ated face she had ever seen. It seemed as if the dead were 
speaking to her. At any rate, if the woman were not dead 
she soon would be, and the thought flashed through Belle’s 
mind that she would be the cause of her death, since she had 
taken her daughter s place and robbed them of sustenance. 
She who had been ready to face a whole shopful of hostile 
people with undaunted eyes was seized with a remorseful 
panic, and ran sobbing down to Clara, crying, “ Oh, do 
come — let me carry you and this she half did in her ex- 
citement. ‘ ‘ Give your mother something to make her bet- 
ter right away. Let me help you — tell me what to do. ’ ’ 

Clara went to her mother and kissed her tenderly, whisper- 
ing, ‘ ‘ Courage, momsy, I’ ve got something nice for you. ’ ’ 
Then she turned and said, “ You are too excited, Belle. 
I’ll do everything, and make the little we have go a great 
way. You would waste things. I know just what to do, 
only give me time, ’ ’ and she soaked some of the bread in the 
milk and began feeding her mother, who swallowed with 
great difficulty. 

“ I’ll take no more — till — I see you — eat something,” 
gasped the poor woman. “ Who gave you all this ? Who’s 
that ?’ ’ pointing feebly at Belle. 

“I’m the girl that took Clara’s place,” Belle began, with 
a fresh burst of sobs. “ I didn’t know I was doing it, and 
now I’ 11 never forgive myself. 

Clara looked at her wonderingly as she explained : “ The 
foreman said you asked Mr. Schriven to make a place for 
you, but I don’ t believe you meant that he should 1 sack ' 
me to do it. Why, you are nothing but a great, warm-hearted 
child. The girls said you were * knowing,’ and could ‘ play 
as deep a game as the next one,’ and that the foreman about 
the same as owned it to them. It’s all his doing and his 
master’s. They both care more for a yard of ribbon than for 
a girl, body and souL” 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


1 88 

“ Well,” said Belle, with bitter emphasis, “I’ll never 
work for them again — never, never. 

‘ * Don’ t say that, ’ ’ resumed Clara, after coaxing her mother 
to take a little more nourishment, and then sitting down to 
eat something herself. “ If you are poor you must do the 
best you can. Now that I know you I’d rather you had my 
place than any one else, for” — she gave a swift glance at her 
mother’s closed eyes, and then whispered in Belle’s ear — “ I 
couldn’t keep it much longer. For the last few weeks it has 
seemed I’d drop on the floor where you stood to-day, and 
every night I’ve had harder work to climb these stairs. Oh, 
Lord ! I wish mother and I could both stay here now till 
we’ re carried down together feet foremost. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Don’ t talk that way, ’ ’ pleaded Belle, beginning to cry 
again. ‘ ‘ We’ 11 all do for you now, and you both will get 
better. ’ ’ 

“ Who’s * we all ’ ? Would you mind telling me a little 
about who you are, and how you came to get my place ?’ ’ 

Belle’s brief sketch of herself, her history, and how the 
recent events had come about, was very simple, but strong 
and original, and left no doubt in her listener’s mind. 

“ My gracious !” Clara cried, as the room darkened, 

4 4 your folks’ 11 be wild about you. I’ ve nothing to offer you 
but your own, and I’ve kept you talking when you must 
have been tired and hungry, but you are so full of life that 
you put a bit of life in me. It’s ages since I felt as you do, 
and I’ll never feel so again. Now run home with your mind 
at rest. You have done us more good than you have harm, 
and you never meant us any harm at all.” 

“ Indeed I did not,” cried Belle, “ but I’m not through 
with you yet. I’ll bring Millie back with me and a lot of 
things,” and she darted away. 

The inmates of the two rooms at the Old Mansion were, 
indeed, anxious over Belle's prolonged absence. Her father 


“/ BELIEVE IN YOU 


189 


had gone to the shop ; Mrs. Wheaton, with her apron thrown 
over her head, was on the sidewalk with Mildred, peering up 
and down through the dusk, when the halt-breathless girl 
appeared. 

Her story was soon told, and Mrs. Wheaton was taken 
into their confidence. From trembling apprehension on 
Belle's behalf, kind Mrs. Jocelyn was soon deep in sympathy 
for the poor woman and her daughter, and offered to go her- 
self and look after them, but Mildred and Mrs. Wheaton 
took the matter into their own hands, and Belle, after gulp- 
ing down a hasty supper, was eager to return as guide. 
Mr. Jocelyn, who had returned from the closed store on a 
run, had so far recovered from his panic concerning his child 
that he said he would bring a physician from the dispensary, 
and, taking the number, went to do his part for those who 
had become “neighbors unto them.” A woman on the 
same floor offered to look after Mrs. Wheaton’s children for 
an hour or two, and the two sisters and the stout English 
woman, carrying everything they could think of to make the 
poor creatures comfortable, and much that they could ill 
spare, started on their errand of mercy. It never occurred to 
them that they were engaged in a charity or doing a good 
deed. They were simply following the impulses of their 
hearts to help those of whose sore need they had just learned. 
Mildred panted a little under her load before she reached the 
top of those long, dark stairs. “ I could never get to heaven 
this way, ’ ’ muttered Belle, upon whom the day of fatigue 
and excitement was beginning to tell. “ It’t up, up, up, 
till you feel like pitching the man who built these steps head 
first down ’em all. It’s Belle, Clara,” she said, after a brief 
knock at the door ; then entering, she added, ‘ ‘ I told you 
I’d come back soon with help for you.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve nothing to make a light with,” Clara 
answered ; ‘ ‘ the moon has been so bright of late that we did 


190 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


without light, and then I got all out of money. We eithei 
had to pay the rent or go into the street, unless some one 
took us in. Besides, mother was too sick to be moved. 

“ I’ve brought two candles,” said Mrs. Wheaton. 

‘ ‘ They' re heasier managed hon a ’ ot night, ’ ’ and she soon 
had one burning on the table and another on the mantel. 

‘ I vant to see vat’s to be done,” she continued, “ because 
I must give yer a ’arty lift hin a jiffey and be back to my 
children hagain. ’ ’ Then going to the sick woman she took 
her hand and felt her pulse. “ 'Ow do yer find yerself, 
mum ?’ ’ she asked. 

“ Oh, I’m much — better — I shall — get well now,” the 
poor soul gasped, under the strange hallucination of that 
disease which, although incurable, ever promises speedy 
health to its victims. 

“ That’s splendid ; that’s the way to talk,” cried Belle, 
who had been oppressed with the fear that the woman would 
die, and that she in some sense would be to blame. ‘ ‘ Clara, 
this is sister Millie that I told you about,” and that was all 
the introduction the two girls ever had. 

“Vy didn’t you send yer mother to a ’ospital?” Mrs. 
Wheaton asked, joining the girls at the table. 

“Don’t say ‘hospital’ so mother can hear you. The 
very word would kill her now, for there’s nothing on earth 
she dreads more than that they’ll separate us and send her to 
a hospital. I’ve sometimes thought it would have been best, 
and then it seemed it would kill her at once, she was so op- 
posed to it. That we might keep together and to buy her 
delicacies I’ve parted with nearly everything in the room, as 
you see, ' ’ and it was bare indeed. A bed from which the 
element of comfort had long since departed, two rickety 
chairs, a pine table, a rusty stove, and a few dishes and cook- 
ing utensils were about all there was left. With eyes slowly 
dilating Mildred took in the bleak truth, but said only a few 


/ BELIEVE IN YOU" 


191 


gentle words and was very busy. She lifted Mrs. Bute's 
head, while Clara gave her a little bread soaked in wine, and 
then aided Mrs. Wheaton in making the room and bed a 
little more like what they should be by means of the articles 
they had brought. Clara wonderingly saw that her little 
closet was stocked with supplies for days to come. Her 
mother’s preternatu rally brilliant eyes followed every move- 
ment, also, with a dumb but eager questioning. Tired Belle 
in the mean time had drawn a chair to the table, and with her 
head resting on her arms had dropped asleep in a moment 

“ Why should your sister work in a store if you’re not 
poor?” Clara asked Mildred. “You can’t be poor and 
spare all these things.” 

“ Yes, we’re poor, but not so poor as you are,” sam 
dred simply. “ Belle touched our hearts in your behalf, 
and we see you need a little neighborly help. ” 

“ Well, I was never so mistaken in any one in my life,” 
Clara exclaimed, looking at the sleeping girl, with a remorse- 
ful gush of tears. “ There isn’t a bad streak in her.” 

At this moment the door opened, and two girls, who had 
been Clara’s companions at the shop, appeared with a few 
meagre parcels. Before asking them in she pulled them 
back in the hall and there were a few moments of eager whis- 
pering. Then they all came in and looked at Belle, and 
Clara stooped down and kissed her lightly, at which the girl 
smiled and murmured, “ Deal little mother — always brood- 
ing over her chicks. ’ ’ 

“ She thinks she’s home,” explained Mildred, with moist 
eyes. 

** This is her sister,” said Clara, “ and this lady is a friend 
of theirs. I know they’ ve robbed themselves, they’ ve brought 
so iruch.” 

“ Vun’s honiy ter come to Hameriker ter be a lady,' 
chuckled Mrs. Wheaton under her breath. 


X 92 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ We won’t wake your sister,” said one of the girls. 
“ She’s tired, and no wonder. We haven’t treated her right 
at the store, but we wasn’ t to blame, for we didn’ t know her 
at all. Please tell her that we’ 11 give her a different reception 
to-morrow, " and after another season of whispering in the 
hall they departed, leaving the simple offerings gleaned from 
their poverty. 

Mr. Jocelyn and the physician soon appeared, and after a 
brief examination the latter called Mr. Jocelyn aside and 
said, “ Her pulse indicates that she may die at any hour. 
There is no use in trying to do anything, for the end has 
come. It has probably been hastened by lack of proper food, 
*ut it’s too late now to give much, for there is no power of 
assimilation.” 

“ You had better tell the poor girl the truth, then,” said 
Mr. Jocelyn. 

Clara was called, and heard the verdict with a short, con- 
vulsive sob, then was her weary, quiet self again. “ I 
feared it was so, ’ ’ was all she said. She now became aware 
that Mildred stood beside her with an encircling and sustain- 
ing arm. “ Don’t,” she whispered ; “ don’t be too kind 
or I’ll break down utterly, and I don’t want to before mother. 
She don’t know — she never will believe she can die, and I 
don’t want her to know. I’ll have time enough to cry after 
she's gone.” 

“ I feel I must stay vith yer to-night,” warm-hearted Mrs. 
Wheaton began ; “ and if Miss Jocelyn vill look hafter my 
children I vill.” 

“ No, Mrs. Wheaton,” said Mildred decidedly, ‘‘I’m 
going to stay. You ought to be with your children. Don’t 
tell Belle, papa, and take the poor child home. Clara and 
I can now do all that can be done. Please don’ t say any- 
thing against it, for I know I’m right, ’ she pleaded eamestlj 
in answer to her father’ s look of remonstrance. 


“/ BELIEVE IN YOU." 


*93 


“ Very well, then, I’ll return and stay with you,” he said. 

The physician’s eyes dwelt on Mildred’s pale face in strong 
admiration as he gave her a few directions. “ That’s right, 
Millie, make her well for mercy’s sake or I’ll have the hor- 
rors,” Belle whispered as she kissed her sister good-night 

Soon Clara and Mildred were alone watching the gasping, 
fitful sleeper. “After all that’s been done — for me — to- 
night I’ll — surely get well,” she had murmured, and she 
closed her eyes without an apparent doubt of recovery. 

Mildred furtively explored the now dimly lighted room. 
“ Merciful Heaven,” she sighed, “ shall we ever come to 
this?” Clara’s eyes were fixed on her mother’s face with 
pathetic intensity, watching the glimmer of that mysterious 
thing we call life, that flickered more and more faintly. The 
difference between the wasted form, with its feeble animation, 
and what it must soon become would seem slight, but to the 
daughter it would be wide indeed. Love could still answer 
love, even though it was by a sign, a glance, a whisper only ; 
but when to the poor girl it would be said of her mother, 

‘ She’s gone,” dim and fading as the presence had been, 
manifested chiefly by the burdens it imposed, its absence 
would bring the depths of desolation and sorrow. 

Going the poor creature evidently was, and whither ? The 
child she was leaving knew little of what was bright and 
pleasant in this world, and nothing of the next. “ Miss 
Jocelyn, ’ ’ she began hesitatingly. 

“Don’t call me Miss Jocelyn; I’m a working-girl like 
yourself. 

“ Millie, then, as Belle said ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Millie, do you believe in a heaven ?” 

41 Yes.” 

“What is it like ?” 

‘ 4 1 don’ t know very well. It' s described to us under evexy 


i 9 4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


grand and beautiful image the world affords. I think we’ll 
find it what we best need to make us happy. 

“ Oh, then it would be rest for mother and me,” the girl 
sighed wearily. 

“It’s surely rest,” Mildred replied quickly, ‘‘fori re- 
member a place in the Bible where it says, ‘ There remaineth 
a rest for the people of God. 

“ That’s it,” said Clara with some bitterness ; ‘‘it’s always 
the people of God. What remains for such as we, who have 
always been so busy fightingthe wolf that we’ve thought little 
of God or church ?” 

‘‘You’ve been no poorer, Clara, than Christ was all His 
life, and were He on earth now as He was once, I’d bring 
Him here to your room. He’d come, too, for He lived 
among just such people as we are, and never once refused to 
help them in their troubles or their sins.” 

‘ ‘ Once — once, ’ ’ cried Clara, with a gush of tears. 
“ Where is He now ?” 

“ Here with us. I know it, for we need Him. Our need 
is our strongest claim — one that He never refused. I have 
entreated Him in your behalf and your mother’ s, and do you 
ask Him also to put heaven at the end of this dark and often 
thorny path which most of us must tread in this world. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, Millie, Millie, I’m ignorant as a heathen. I did have 
a Bible, but I sold even that to buy wine to save mother’s 
life. I might better have been thinking of saving her soul. 
She’s too sick to be talked to now, but surely she ought to 
find at least a heaven of rest. You could never understand 
the life she’s led. She hasn’t lived — she’s just been dragged 
through the world. She was born in a tenement-house. 
The little play she ever had was on sidewalks and in the gut- 
ters ; she’s scarcely ever seen the country. Almost before 
she knew how to play she began to work. When she was 
onlv seventeen a coarse, bad man married her How it ever 


44 / BELIEVE TAT YOU." 


195 


came about I never could understand. I don’t believe he 
knew anything more of love than a pig ; for he lived like 
one and died like one, only he didn’t die soon enough. It 
seems horrible that I should speak in this way of my father, 
and yet why should I not, when he was a horror to me ever 
since I can remember ? Instead of taking care of mother, 
she had to take care of him. He’d take the pittance she 
had wrung from the washtub for drink, and then come back 
to repay her for it with blows and curses. I guess we must 
have lived in fifty tenements, for we were always behind with 
the rent and so had to move here and there, wherever we 
could get a place to put our heads in. Queer places some 
of them were, I can tell you — mere rat-holes. They served 
one purpose, though — they finished off the children. To all 
mother’s miseries and endless work was added the anguish 
of child-bearing. They were miserable, puny, fretful little 
imps, that were poisoned off by the bad air in which we lived, 
and our bad, food — that is, when we had any — after they had 
made all the trouble they could. I had the care of most of 
them, and my life became a burden before I was seven years 
old. I used to get so tired and faint that I was half glad 
when they died. At last, when mother became so used up 
that she really couldn’t work any more, father did for us the 
one good act that I know anything about — he went off on 
a big spree that finished him. Mother and I have clung 
together ever since. We’ve often been hungry, but we've 
never been separated a night. What a long night is coming 
now, in which the doctor says we shall be parted !” and the 
poor girl crouched on the floor where her mother could not 
see her should she open her eyes, and sobbed convulsively. 

Mildred did not try to comfort her with words, but only 
with caresses. Christ proved centuries ago that the sympa- 
tnetic touch is healing. 

“ Oh, Millie, I seem to feel the gentle stroke of your hand 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


; 9 & 

on my heart as well as on my brow, and it makes the pain 
easier to bear. It makes me feel as if the coarse, brutal life 
through which I’ve come did not separate me from one so 
good and different as you are ; for though you may be poor, 
you are as much of a lady as any I’ve ever waited on at the 
store. And then to look at your father and to think of mine. 
I learned to hate men even when a child, for nearly all I ever 
knew either abused me or tempted me ; but, Millie, you 
need not fear to touch me. I never sold myself, though I’ve 
been faint with hunger. I’m ignorant, and my heart’s been 
full of bitterness, but I’m an honest girl.” 

“ Poor, poor Clara !” said Mildred brokenly, “ my heart 
aches for you as I think of all you’ve suffered.” 

The girl sprang up, seized the candle, and held it to Mil- 
dred’s face. “ My God,” she whispered, “ you are crying 
over my troubles.” Then she looked steadfastly into the 
tearful blue eyes and beautiful face of her new friend for a 
moment, and said, “ Millie, I’ll believe any faith you! II teach 
me, for I believe in you." 


BELLE JARS THE “ SYSTEM: 


10? 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BELLE JARS THE “SYSTEM.” 

S OME orthodox divines would have given Clara a version 
of the story of life quite different from that which she re- 
ceived from Mildred. Many divines, not orthodox, would have 
made the divergence much wider. The poor girl, so bruised 
in spirit and broken in heart, was not ready for a system of 
theology or for the doctrine of evolution ; and if any one 
had begun to teach the inherent nobleness and self-correcting 
power of humanity, she would have shown him the door, 
feeble as she was. But when Mildred assured her that if 
Christ were in the city, as He had been in Capernaum, He 
would climb the steep, dark stairs to her attic room and say 
to her, “Daughter, be of good comfort” — when she was 
told that Holy Writ declared that He was the “ same yester- 
day, to-day, and forever” — her heart became tender and con- 
trite, and therefore ready for a Presence that is still ‘ ‘ seeking 
that which was lost. ' ’ 

Men may create philosophies, they may turn the Gospel 
itself into a cold abstraction, but the practical truth remains 
that the Christ who saves, comforts, and lifts the intolerable 
burden of sorrow or of sin, comes now as of old — comes as 
a living, loving, personal presence, human in sympathy, 
divine in power. As Mildred had said, our need and our 
consciousness of it form our strongest claim upon Him and 
the best preparation for Him. 

Clara was proving the truth of her words. Life could 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


198 

never be to her again merely a bitter, sullen struggle foi 
bread. A great hope was dawning, and though but a few 
rays yet quivered through the darkness, they were the earnest 
of a fuller light. 

Before midnight Mr. Jocelyn joined the watchers, and 
seated himself unobtrusively in a dusky corner of the room. 
Clara crouched on the floor beside her mother, her head 
resting on the bed, and her hand clasping the thin fingers of 
the dying woman. She insisted on doing everything the pool 
creature required, which was but little, for it seemed that life 
would waver out almost imperceptibly. Mildred sat at the 
foot of the bed, where her father could see her pure profile in 
the gloom. To his opium-kindled imagination it seemed 
to have a radiance of its own, and to grow more and more 
luminous until, in its beauty and light, it became like the 
countenance of an accusing angel ; then it began to recede 
until it appeared infinitely far away. “Millie,” he called, 
in deep apprehension. 

“ What is it, papa ?” she asked, springing to his side and 
putting her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Oh !” he said, shudderingly. “ I had such a bad 
dream ! You seemed fading away from me, till I could no 
longer see your face. It was so horribly real 1” 

She came and sat beside him, and held his hand in both of 
hers. “ That’s right,” he remarked ; “ now my dreams will 
be pleasant.” 

“You didn’t seem to be asleep, papa,” said the girl, in 
some surprise ; “ indeed, you seemed looking at me 
fixedly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then I must have been asleep with my eyes open, ’ ' he 
answered, with a trace of embarrassment. 

“ Poor papa, you are tired, and it’s very, very kind of you 
to come and stay with me, but I wasn’ t afraid. Clara says 
It* s a respectable house, and the people, though very poor, 


BELLE JARS THE “ SYSTEM 199 

are quiet and well behaved. Now that you have seen that we 
are safe, please go home and rest, ’ ' and she coaxed until he 
complied, more from fear that he would betray himself than 
Irom any other motive. 

In the deep hush that falls on even a great city before the 
early life of the next day begins, Mrs. Bute opened her eyes 
and called, “Clara!” 

“ Right here, momsy, dear, holding your hand.” 

“ It’s strange — I can’t see you — I feel so much better, 
too — sort of rested. It does — seem now — as if I — might get 
— a little rest. Don’t wake me — child — to give me — any- 
thing — and rest yourself. ’ ’ 

She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes, and very soon 
Clara could never wake her again. Mildred took the head 
of the orphan into her lap, and the poor girl at last sobbed 
herself to sleep. 

We will not attempt to follow Mildred’s thoughts as she 
tried to keep up through the long hours. The murmured 
words, “ I would watch more patiently over Vinton Arnold, 
did not his proud mother stand between us,” suggests the 
character of some of them.. At last, when she was faint from 
weariness, she heard steps coming up the stairs, and her 
mother entered, followed by Mrs. Wheaton. 

‘ ‘ My dear, brave child, this is too much for you. I’d rather 
it had been myself a thousand times, ” Mrs. Jocelyn exclaimed. 

“It's all right, mamma, but the sight of you and good 
Mrs. Wheaton is more welcome than I can tell you. for I 
was getting very lonely and tired. ” 

“I’ll stay now hand tend ter heverything, ” said Mrs. 
Wheaton, with a stout, cheery kindness that could not be 
disguised even in her whisper ; but Clara awoke with a start 
and said, “ What is it, momsy ?” 

Then she sprang up, and after a brief glance at her mother 
threw herself with a long, low cry on the lifeless form. 


200 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Leave hall ter me," said Mrs. Wheaton decidedly, 
“ hand take Miss Jocelyn ’ome, for this’ll be too much foi 
'er." 

“ Ah, mamma dear," sobbed Mildred, “ my heart would 
be broken indeed if that were you. ’ ' 

" Millie, if you love me, come home at once," Mrs. Joce- 
lyn urged. It was quite light when they gained the street, 
and after reaching home Mildred was given a warm cup of 
tea, and left to sleep until late in the day. While she slept, 
however, there occurred some rather stirring scenes. 

Belle, too, slept rather late, but a portentous gloom came 
into her eyes when told that Mrs. Bute was dead. She did 
not say very much, but her young face grew older and verj 
resolute while she hastily ate her breakfast. Then she car- 
ried something nice to Clara, and found that Mrs. Wheaton 
had left, a neighbor from the tall tenement having taken her 
place. 

Belle looked at the bereaved girl with half-fearful eyes as 
if she expected reproaches, and when Clara kissed her in 
greeting she said ‘ * Don’ t’ ’ so sharply as to excite surprise. 

“ Belle," said Clara gently, “ mother’s at rest." 

"That’s more than I am," muttered the girl. "Oh, 
Clara, I didn’t mean to bring all this trouble on you. That 
man just caught me in a trap." 

"Belle, Belle! why do you blame yourself for all this? 
It would have come just the same, and probably just as 
soon, and if it hadn’t been for you I’d been alone, with nq 
friends and no hope. ’ ' 

" Oh, don’t talk to me !" Belle cried ; " your mother 
might have been alive if I hadn’ t taken your place. I want 
to see her." 

Clara turned back the covering, and the young girl looked 
at the dead face with a stem, frowning brow. 

" Starved 1" she muttered. " I understand why they all 


BELLE JARS THE “SYSTEM." 


201 


looked so black at me now ; but why couldn't some one have 
told me ? He shall know the truth for once ; he's more to 
blame than I,” and she abruptly departed. 

Very little later the foreman of the shop on Sixth Avenue 
was astonished to see her passing hastily toward the private 
office, regardless of the looks of surprise and interest turned 
toward her on every side, for the events of the night had been 
very generally whispered around. 

“ Mr. Schriven’s engaged,” he said sharply. “ What do 
you want ? Why are you not in your place ?" 

“ I am in my place, but you are not Stand aside, for I 
will see Mr. Schriven at once.” 

4 ‘ I tell you some one is with him. ’ ' 

44 I don’t care if the king’s with him,” and darting on one 
side she reached the office door, and knocked so sharply that 
the ireful potentate within sprang up himself to see who the 
inconsiderate intruder was. 

44 Oh, it's you,” he said, half inclined to laugh in spite of 
his anger. ‘ ‘ I thought I said that, if I employed you, you 
were not to come to my office again unless I sent for you ?” 

“I’m not in your employ. ’ ' 

“ Indeed ! How’s that ?” he asked very sharply. 

44 That is just what I’ve come to explain,” was the un- 
flinching reply. 

44 By-by,” remarked Mr. Schriven’s visitor maliciously; 
44 1 see you are to be interviewed.” 

44 Very briefly, I assure you. Good-morning. Now, 
miss, I give you about one minute to transact your business 
with me, then the cashier will pay you for two days’ work.” 

44 No, sir, he will not Do you think I’d take money 
stained with blood ?” 

4 4 What do you mean ? What kind of a girl are you any- 
way ?” 

44 I’m an honest girl ; I believe in God and the devil — I 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


202 

believe in them both too well to have anything more to do 
with you unless you can prove you didn’ t know any more 
than I did. You think to frighten me with black looks, but 
I’ve just come from a greater presence than yours — the pres- 
ence of one who'll soon be your master — Death, and death 
for which you are responsible. 

4 ‘ Good God ! what do you mean ?’ ’ 

“ What did you mean by turning off without a word a 
poor girl — one who for years had done her best for you ? 
What did you mean by making a place for me in that way ? 
Her mother died last night — starved — and I’d have you know 
that I’d have starved before I’d have taken her place had 1 
known what I know now. Go look at your work at the top 
of a tenement-house ! There’ s more flesh on your arm than 
on that dead woman’ s body, and the poor girl herself hadn’ t 
eaten anything for two days when she came here last night. 
She’d have died, too, if sister Millie hadn’t stayed with her 
last night. I hope you didn’ t know any more than I did. 
If you did you’ve got to settle with God and the devil before 
you’ re through with this kind of business. ’ ’ 

The man was frightened, for he had meant no deliberate 
cruelty. He was only practising the sound political econ- 
omy of obtaining the most for the least, but in the words and 
stern face of the child he saw how his act must appear to a 
mind unwarped by interest and unhardened by selfish years. 
Moreover, he could not bluster in the presence of death, and 
the thought that his greed had caused it chilled his heart with 
a sudden dread. He caught at the extenuation her words 
suggested, and, said gravely, “You are right; I did not 
know. I would send food from my own table rather than 
any one should go hungry. I knew nothing about this girl, 
and no one has told me of her need until this moment. A 
man at the head of a great business cannot look after details. 
The best he can do is to manage his business on business 


BELLE JARS THE “ SYSTEM. 


205 


principles. To prove that I’m sincere, I'll take the girl 
back again at her old wages, although I do not need her. 

The man lied in giving a false impression. It was true 
that he did not single out individuals as objects of intentional 
cruelty, but his system was hard and remorseless, and crushed 
like the wheels of Juggernaut, and he purposely shut his 
eyes to all questions and consequences save those of profit 
and loss. When compelled to face, through Belle’s eyes, 
an instance of the practical outcome of his system, he shud- 
dered and trembled, for the moment, and was inclined to 
ease his conscience by a little ostentatious kindness, especial- 
ly as the facts in the case bade fair to become known. Men 
who, unlike Belle, have little fear of God or the devil, do 
fear public opinion. The girl interpreted him, however, 
after her own warm, guileless heart, and in strong revulsion 
of feeling said, tearfully, “ Please forgive me, sir, for speak' 
ing as I have. I’ve done you wrong, and I acknowledge it 
frankly, but I was almost beside myself. We didn’t either 
of us mean them any harm. ’ ’ 

The man could not repress a smile at Belle’ s association of 
herself with him in the guilt of the affair. In fact, he rather 
liked the idea, for it made his own part seem quite venial 
after all — an error of ignorance like that of the child’s — so 
he said kindly, “ Indeed, we did not, and now we’ll make 
amends. You go and see what is needed and let me know, 
and to-morrow, if you wish, you can take your own place 
and not any one’s else. You are a smart, good-hearted girl, 
and by and by I can give you better wages.” 

‘‘I did you wrong, sir,” repeated Belle remorsefully, 
5< and now that you will take Clara back, I’d work for you 
almost for nothing. When and where shall I come ?’ ’ she 
added humbly ; ” I don’t wish to seem rude any more.” 

“ Come to my house this evening,” and he gave her hit 
number. 


204 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ I beg your pardon for what I said. Good-by, sir,” 
and with tearful eyes and downcast face she went to the 
street, without a glance on either side. 

The man sat for a few moments with a heavily contracting 
brow. At last he strecthed out his hand and sighed, “I'd 
give all there is in this store if my heart was like that girl's, 
but here I am at this hour engaged in a transaction which is 
the devil’s own bargain, and with a firm that can’t help itself 
because it is in my power. Hang it all ! business is busi- 
ness ; I’ll lose a cool thousand unless I carry it through as 
T ’ve begun.’’ He seized his pen and carried it through. 

Belle, attended by her father, was not in the least abashed 
by the elegance of Mr. Schriven’s parlor, as he had rather 
hoped she would be, but he was much impressed by Mr. 
Jocelyn’s fine appearance and courtly bearing. “ No won- 
der the girl’s course has been peculiar,” he thought. “ She 
comes from no common stock. If I’ve ever seen a Southern 
gentleman, her father’s one, and her plump little body is full 
of hot Southern blood. She’s a thoroughbred, and that ac- 
counts for her smartness and fearlessness. Where other girls 
would whine and toady to your face, and be sly and catlike 
behind your back, she’d look you in the eyes and say all she 
meant point-blank. I’m glad indeed things are taking their 
present course, for these people could make any man trou- 
ble, ’ ’ and he treated his guests very suavely. 

Belle soon told her story in a straightforward manner. 
One of her generous projects was to have a rather grand 
funeral, with all the girls in the shop attending in a proces- 
sion. “ What a child she is !” thought Mr. Schriven, with 
difficulty repressing a laugh, but he proceeded very gravely 
to induce the girl to take his own practical view. 

“In the first place, my child,” he said, “ that woman 
died of consumption — she didn’t starve at all. 

“ I think she died the sooner,” Belle faltered. 


BELLE JARS THE SYSTEM." 205 

’ r Possibly. If so, she was the sooner out of her misery. 
At any rate we are not to blame, since, as you said, we 
didn’t know. Now a funeral, such as you suggest, would 
be very costly, and would do no one any good. It would 
scarcely be in good taste, for, considering the poor woman’s 
circumstances, it would be ostentatious.” 

‘ 4 Belle, Mr. Schriven is right, ’ ’ said her father, in a tone 
of quiet authority. 

“ Let us rather consider the need of the daughter,” Mr. 
Schriven resumed. “You say she is worn and weak from 
watching and work. A quarter of the money that a funeral 
would cost would give her two or three weeks in the coun- 
try. And now,” he concluded impressively — his con- 
science needed a little soothing, and his purse was plethoric 
with the thousand dollars wrung from those who had the mis- 
fortune to be in his power — “ I will pay her board at some 
quiet farm-house for three weeks, and then she’ 11 come back 
fresh and strong to her old place.” 

Belle’s eyes filled with tears of gladness. “ You are right, 
sir, and you are very kind and generous. I know just the 
place for her to go — the people we’ve been with all summer. 
They are kind, and will do everything for her, and take away 
her strange feeling at once. Oh, I’m so glad it’s all ending 
so much better than I feared ! I thought this morning I 
could never be happy again, but you’ve made all seem so 
different and hopeful. I thank you, sir, over and over, and 
I’ll do my best now at the store, and be respectful to every 
one. ’ ’ 

The man was touched. The warm, reflected glow of the 
girl’s heart softened for a moment his own icy organ, and his 
eyes grew moist momentarily. “You area good child,” 
he said. “Here are thirty-five dollars for your friend, soi 
you’ve been a friend to her indeed. Most girls would have 
let them starve for all they cared. Now send the girl off to 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


to6 

he country, and as soon as I can I’ll raise your wages to five 
dollars. I’d do it now, only the others would talk and say 
it wasn’t customary to pay beginners so highly. Mr. Joce- 
lyn, I congratulate you on the possession of such a daughter, 
and I sincerely hope you may soon retrieve your fortunes and 
regain the position to which I see that you both naturally 
belong/ ’ and he bowed them out with a politeness and re- 
spect that were not by any means assumed. 

Belle almost danced home by her father’s side, so great 
was the rebound of her depressed feelings. Thirty* five dol- 
lars ! How much that would do for poor Clara 1 Millie 
would help h^r make up her mourning, and she would have 
nothing to pay for but the material. She would write to 
Mrs. Atwood that very night, and to Roger, telling him he 
must be kind to Clara, and take her out to drive. Her heart 
fairly bubbled over with plans and projects for the girl whose 
* * place she had taken. ’ * 

Tho poor child had scarcely begun her letter to Mrs. At- 
wood before her head drooped, and Mildred said, “Tell 
met nai to say, Belle, and I’ll write it all. You’ve done 
your part to-day, and done it well. ’ ’ 

“ That’s good of you, Millie. When I get sleepy it’s no 
se to try to do anything. I’d go to sleep if the house was 
•n fire. But you won’t write to Roger, I’m afraid.” 

‘ No. If he must be written to, you must do that ’ ’ 

“Well, I will to-morrow. He’ll do Clara more good 
than all the rest. ’ ’ 

Our story passes hastily over the scenes that followed. A 
brief service was held over Mrs. Bute’s remains by a city 
missionary, known to Mrs. Wheaton, who was present 
with Mrs. Jocelyn, Belle, and Mildred. Three or four 
neighbors from the tenement lent chairs and came in also. 
The girls at the ribbon counter clubbed together and sent 
an anchor of white flowers, and at the hour of the funeral 


BELLE JARS THE “SYSTEM." *07 

they looked grave and were quiet in manner, thus taking part 
in the solemnity in the only way they could. In due time the 
city department upon which the duty devolved sent the 
“ dead wagon ;" the morsel of human clay was returned to 
its kindred dust in “ Potter s Field," a public cemetery on 
Hart’s Island, in which are interred all who die in the city 
and whose friends are unable to pay for a grave or a burial 
plot. Clara, however, had not the pain of seeing her mother 
placed in the repulsive red box furnished by the department, 
for Mr. Jocelyn sent a plain but tasteful coffin, with the 
woman’s age and name inscribed upon it. 

Mrs. Wheaton went with the girl to the grave, and then 
brought her to her own little nook in the old mansion, for 
Clara had said she had no relatives that she knew anything 
about except a few on her father’s side, and she had rather 
goto a station-house than to them. “Don’t talk habout 
station ’ouses till yer can see vat I kin do for yer," the 
good woman had said in her hearty way, and she did play 
the good Samaritan so well, and poured the “ oil and wine’ 
of kindness into the poor creature’s wounds so effectually, 
that she began to change for the better daily. 

Mildred redeemed Belle’s promise, and between them all 
they soon fitted Clara for her trip to the country. By the 
time Mrs. Atwood’s reply reached Mildred, and Roger’s 
hearty answer came back in response to Belle’s characteristic 
note, she was ready to go. “There’s a man’s hand for 
you," cried Belle exultantly as she exhibited Roger’s bold 
chirography. “It’s a hand that can be depended upon, 
strong and ready. ’ ’ 

Mildred smiled as she replied, “ You’re welcome to it, 
Belle." 

“You needn’t smile so placidly," she retorted, with an 
ominous nod. “ We are not through with Roger Atwood 
yet" 


208 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Perhaps quotations from two letters written by Clara to 
Mildred and Belle, and received a week later, will form a 
satisfactory ending to this chapter. Clara had been taught 
to read and write in the public schools of the city, and but 
little more. In later years she had occasionally found op- 
portunity to attend some of the night schools established for 
those whose only leisure came after the busy day was over, 
and so had learned to use her pen with tolerable correctness. 
In waiting upon the educated people who frequented the 
shop she had caught, with the aptness of an American girl, a 
very fair power of expressing herself in speech. Writing a 
letter, however, was a formidable affair, in which she had 
scarcely any experience. Her missives, therefore, were very 
simple, and somewhat defective in outward form, but they 
suggested some interesting facts. 

“Dear Millie (ran the first) : I'm very sad and hapy. 
The Countrys like heven. All are so kind. Even the dog 
dosen’t grole at me, and Mr. Roger says that’s queer for he 
groles at everybody. I feel so much better I don’t know 
myself. I feel like takin depe breths of air all the time and 
I never tasted such milk. Every glass puts life in me. If I 
can get work up here I’ll never go back to town and stand 
all day again. The girls up here have a chance to live — they 
haven’t any chance at all in a store. The strongest will 
brake down and then they are good for nothing. I wish 
Belle could do something else. I wish thousands would go 
in the country and do work that would make us look like 
Susan. Mrs. Atwood thinks she can find me a place with 
kind people, where I’ll be treted almost like one of the fam- 
ily. Anyway I’ve had enough of standing and bad air and 
starving and I don’t see why working in a farmhouse ain't 
just as ladylike as wating on folks with the floorwalkef 
awatchin you like a slave driver. Standing all day is deth to 


BELLE JA RS THE “ SYS TEM. ” 209 


most girls and about the hardest deth they can die. I feel 
as if I could live to be a hundred up here. 

“ Millie, dear, I read the Bible you gave me and I pray 
for you and Belle every night and morning and He answers. 
I know it I love you very much and I’ve good reason. 

Goodbye ' “Clara Bute.” 


Her letter to Belle was more descriptive of her daily life, 
of the kindness she received on every hand. One brief ex- 
tract from it will suffice : 


“ I’ve got well acquainted with Roger," she wrote. 
“ He's easy to get acquainted with. Now I think of it 
though he says little or nothing about himself but he leads 
me to talk and tell about you all in a way that surprises me. 
If his interest was prying I’m sure I wouldn’t have told 
him anything. I know well now it isn't. Does Millie 
know how he feels toward her ? I saw it all last night. I 
was telling him about my past life and how poor and forlorn 
we had been and how I had told Millie all about it and then 
how Millie had just treted me as if I were as good as she 
was. As I talked he became so white I thought he’d faint. 
Suddenly he burst out despairingly, ‘ I hoped she was proud 
but she isn’t — I could overcome pride. But what can I do 
when I’m just detested? There, I’ve made a fool of my- 
self,’ he said savagelike after a moment, and he hurried 
away. For the last two days he’s been so quiet and looked 
so stern and sad that his family don’t know what to make oi 
him, but I know what’s the matter, and I feel sorry for him, 
for he seems to me more like a man than any of the young 
fellows I’ve seen in town. Don’t tell Millie for I don’t 
want to even seem to meddle. 


But Belle had no gift of reticence, and she not only showed 
her sister the letter, but overwhelmed her with reproaches for 


2X0 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


her “heartless treatment of Roger.” As a natural result 
Mildred was only more irritated and prejudiced against the 
young man than ever. 

“You are all absurdly unreasonable,” she cried. “ What 
have I ever done to make him turn white or red, or to 
‘ burst out despairingly, ’ and all that kind of sentimental 
nonsense ? Because he is lackadaisical and is experiencing 
strange, vague emotions, must I be afflicted in like manner ? 
Must I break faith with one I do love and do violence to 
my own feelings, just because this farmer wants me to? 
You know what’s the matter with him — Clara saw at a glance 
— and the course I’m taking is the only way to cure him. 
All his talk about friendship is transparent folly. If I took 
your advice it would make him only more and more infatu- 
ated ; and now I haven’t it on my conscience that I gave 
him one bit of encouragement. I’m sorry for him, of 
course. I shall be more sorry for his mother and sister if he 
is guilty of the folly of leaving home. If, instead of doing 
his duty by them, he comes mooning after me here, when he 
knows it is of no use, I shall lose my respect for him utterly.” 
There seemed so much downright common-sense in this 
view of the affair that even Belle found no words in reply. 
Her reason took Mildred’s part, but her warm little heart led 
her to shake her head ominously at her sister, and then 
sleepily she sought the rest her long, tiresome day required. 


SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK . 


211 


CHAPTER XX. 

SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK. 

P RECIPITOUS ascents and descents do not constitute 
the greater part of life’s journey. In the experience of 
<ery many they occur more or less frequently, but they con- 
duct to long intervals where the way is comparatively level, 
although it may be flinty, rough, and hedged with thorns. 
More often the upward trend or the decline of our paths 
is so slight as not to be noticed as we pass on, but at the end 
of years we can know well whether we are gaining or losing. 

The Jocelyns, in common with thousands of others, had 
made a swift descent from a position of comparative affluence 
to one of real, though not repulsive, poverty. There was 
nothing, however, in their fall that cast a shadow upon them 
in the eyes of the world except as the unfortunate are always 
“ under a cloud ” to the common herd that moves together 
in droves only where the sunlight of prosperity falls. If Mr. 
Jocelyn could regain his former position, or a better one, 
there had been nothing in his brief obscurity that would pre- 
vent his wife and daughters from stepping back into their old 
social place, with all its privileges and opportunities. 

The reader knows, however, that his prospects were be- 
coming more and more dubious — that each day added a 
rivet to the chain that an evH habit was forging. His family 
did not even suspect this, although the impression was grow- 
ing upon them that his health was becoming impaired. 
They were beginning to accommodate themselves to life at 


212 


W I THOU 7' A HOME . 


its present level, and the sense of its strangeness was passing 
slowly away. This was especially true of Belle and the chil- 
dren, upon whom the past had but a comparatively slight 
hold. Mildred, from her nature and tastes, felt the change 
more keenly than any of the others, and she could never for- 
get that it raised a most formidable barrier against her dearest 
hopes. Mrs. Jocelyn also suffered greatly from the privations 
of her present lot, and her delicate organization was scarcely 
equal to the tasks and burdens it imposed. As far as possible 
she sought to perform the domestic duties that were more 
suited to the stout, red arms of those accustomed to such 
labors. It seemed essential that Mildred and Belle should 
give their strength to supplementing their father's small 
income, for a time at least, though all were living in hope 
that this necessity would soon pass away. The family was 
American, and Southern at that, in the idea that bread-win- 
ning was not woman's natural province, but only one of the 
direful penalties of extreme poverty. The working-woman 
of the South belonged to a totally different class from that in 
which Mr. and Mrs. Jocelyn had their origin, and prejudices 
die hard, even among people who are intelligent, and, in 
most respects, admirable. To Mrs. Jocelyn and her daugh- 
ters work was infinitely preferable to dependence, but it was 
nevertheless menial and undignified because of its almost in- 
voluntary and hereditary association with a race of bond- 
servants. He is superficial indeed in his estimate of charac- 
ter who thinks that people can change their views and feelings 
in response to a brief demonstration of the essential dignity 
of labor, especially after generations of accumulating pride of 
caste have been giving the mind a different bent. Moreover, 
this family of Southern origin had not seen in the city of New 
York very much confirmation of the boasted Northern ideas 
of labor. Social status depended too much on the number 
of servants that people kept and the style in which they lived 


SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK. 


*13 


Poverty had brought them a more sudden and complete loas 
of recognition than would have been possible in the South— 
a loss which they would not have felt so greatly had they 
wealthy connections in town through whom they might have 
retained, in part at least, their old relations with people of 
their own station. 

As it was, they found themselves almost wholly isolated. 
Mrs. Jocelyn did not regret this so much for herself, since 
her family was about all the society she craved ; moreover in 
her girlhood she had been accustomed to rather remote 
plantation life, with its long intervals of absence of society. 
Mr. Jocelyn’s business took him out among men even more 
than he relished, for his secret indulgence predisposed to 
solitude and quiet He was living most of the time in an 
unreal world, and inevitable contact with his actual life and 
surroundings brought him increasing distress. 

With Belle and Mildred it was different At their age 
society and recreation were as essential as air and light. 
Many are exceedingly uncharitable toward working-girls be- 
cause they are often found in places of resort that are, with- 
out doubt, objectionable and dangerous. The fact is ignored 
that these places are sought from a natural and entirely whole- 
some desire for change and enjoyment, which are as needful 
to physical and moral health as sunlight to a plant They 
forget that these normal cravings of the young in their own 
families find many and safe means of gratification which are 
practically denied to the tenement population. If, instead 
of harsh judgments, they would provide for the poor places 
ot cheap and innocent resort ; if, instead of sighing over in- 
nate depravity, they would expend thought and effort in bring- 
ing sunshine into the experiences of those whose lives are 
deeply shadowed by the inevitable circumstances of their lot, 
they would do far more to exemplify the spirit of Him who 
has done so much to fill the world with light, flowers, and 
musfc. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


JI4 

Mildred began to brood and grow morbid in her monoto- 
nous work and seclusion ; and irrepressible Belle, to whom 
shop life was becoming an old, weary story, was looking 
around for “pastures new/' Her nature was much too 
forceful for anything like stagnation. The world is full of 
such natures, and we cannot build a dike of ‘ ‘ thou shalt 
nots” around them ; for sooner or later they will overleap 
the barriers, and as likely on the wrong side as on the right. 
Those who would save and bless the world can accomplish 
far more by making safe channels than by building embank- 
ments, since almost as many are ruined by undue and un- 
wise repression as by equally unwise and idiotic indulgence. 

If Mr. Jocelyn had been himself he might have provided 
much innocent and healthful recreation for his family ; but 
usually he was so dreamy and stupid in the evening that he 
was left to doze quietly in his chair. His family ascribed his 
condition to weariness and reaction from his long strain of 
anxiety ; and opium had already so far produced its legitimate 
results that he connived at their delusion if he did not con- 
firm it by actual assertion. It is one of the diabolical quali- 
ties of this habit that it soon weakens and at last destroys all 
truth and honor in the soul, eating them out with a corrosive 
power difficult to explain. 

For the first week or two Belle was glad to rest in the even- 
ings from the intolerable weariness caused by standing all day, 
but the adaptability of the human frame is wonderful, and 
many at last become accustomed, and, in some sense, inured 
to that which was torture at first. Belle was naturally strong 
and vigorous, and her compact, healthful organism endured 
the cruel demand made upon it far better than the majority 
of her companions. Nature had endowed her with a very 
large appetite for fun. For a time her employment, with its 
novelty, new associations, and small excitements, furnished 
this, but now her duties were fading into prosaic work, and 


SE VERAL Q UJE T FORCES A T WORK. 2 1 5 

the child was looking around for something enlivening. 
Where in the great city could she find it ? Before their 
poverty came there were a score of pretty homes like her own 
in which she could visit schoolmates ; her church and Sab- 
bath-school ties brought her into relation with many of her 
own age ; and either in her own home or in those of her 
friends she took part in breezy little festivities that gave full 
and healthful scope to her buoyant nature. She was not over- 
fastidious now, but when occasionally she wei home with 
some of her companions at the shop, she returned dissatisfied. 
The small quarters in which the girls lived rendered little 
confidential chats — so dear to girls — impossible, and she was 
brought at once into close contact with strange and often re- 
pulsive people. It seemed that the street furnished the only 
privacy possible, except as she brought girls to her own 
abode. Her mother and sister were very considerate in this 
respect, and welcomed all of her acquaintances who appeared 
like good, well-meaning girls ; and Mildred would either give 
up her share of their little room for the time, or else take part 
in their talk in such a genial way as to make the visitors at 
home as far as they could be with one in whom they recog- 
nized their superior. Their light talk and shop gossip were 
often exceedingly tiresome to Mildred, but she felt that Belle 
needed every safeguard within their power to furnish. And 
this privilege of welcoming the best companions her circum- 
stances permitted was of great help to Belle, and, for a time, 
prevented her restless spirit from longing for something more 
decided in the way of amusement. Of necessity, however, 
anything so quiet could not last ; but where could the girl 
find pleasures more highly colored ? Occasionally she would 
coax or scold her father into taking her out somewhere, but 
this occurred less and less frequently, for she was made to feel 
that his health required absolute rest when his business per- 
mitted it. If she had had kind brothers the case would have 


2l6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


been greatly simplified, but thousands of working-girls have 
no brothers, no male companions save those acquaintances 
that it is their good or, more often, their evil fortune to make. 
Without a brother, a relative, or a friend deserving the name, 
how is a young girl, restricted to a boarding-house or a 
tenement, to find safe recreation ? Where can she go for it 
on the great majority of the evenings of the year ? Books 
and papers offer a resource to many, and Mildred availed 
herself of them to her injury. After sitting still much of the 
day she needed greater activity in the evening. Belle was 
not fond of reading, as multitudes on the fashionable ave- 
nues are not. The well-to-do have many other resources — 
what chances had she ? To assert that working-girls ought 
to crave profitable reading and just the proper amount of 
hygienic exercise during their leisure, and nothing more, is 
to be like the engineer who said that a river ought to have 
been half as wide as it was, and then he could build a bridge 
across it. The problem must be solved as it exists. 

To a certain extent this need of change and cheerful recre- 
ation is supplied in connection with some of the mission 
chapels, and the effort is good and most commendable as far 
as it goes ; but as yet the family had formed no church re- 
lations. Mildred, Belle, and occasionally Mrs. Jocelyn had 
attended Sabbath service in the neighborhood. They 
shrank, however, so morbidly from recognition that they had 
no acquaintances and had formed no ties. They had a prej- 
udice against mission chapels, and were not yet willing to 
identify themselves openly with their poor neighbors. As 
yet they had incurred no hostility on this account, for their 
kindly ways and friendliness to poor Clara had won the 
good-will and sympathy of all in the old mansion. But the 
differences between the Jocelyns and their neighbors were 
too great for any real assimilation, and thus, as we have said, 
they were thrown mainly on their own resources. Mr& 


SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK. 


217 


Wheaton was their nearest approach to a friend, and very 
helpful she was to them in many ways, especially in relieving 
Mrs. Jocelyn, for a very small compensation, from her 
heavier tasks. The good woman, however, felt even more 
truly than they that they had too little in common for in- 
timacy. 

There is one amusement always open to working-girls if 
they are at all attractive — the street flirtation. To their honor 
it can be said that comparatively few of the entire number 
indulge in this dangerous pastime from an improper motive, 
the majority meaning no more harm or evil than their more 
fortunate sisters who can enjoy the society of young men in 
well - appointed parlors. In most instances this street ac- 
quaintance, although unhedged by safe restrictions, is by no 
means indiscriminate. The young men are brothers or 
friends of companions, or they are employed in the same 
establishment, or else reside in the neighborhood, so that 
usually something is known of their characters and antece- 
dents, and the desire to become friendly is similar to that in- 
fluencing the young people of country neighborhoods. As 
a rule these young people have few opportunities of meeting 
save in the streets and places of public resort. The conditions 
of life in a great city, however, differ too widely from those of 
a village or country town, where every one is well known and 
public opinion is quick and powerful in its restraints. Social 
circles are too loosely organized in a city ; their members 
from necessity are generally too little known to each other ; 
there are too many of both sexes ready to take advantage of 
the innocent and unwary, and their opportunities of escape 
from all penalty invite the crimes suggested by their evil 
natures. Belle had been often warned, and she had so much 
affection for her mother and so much pride that she did not 
fall readily into indiscretions ; nor would she in the future re- 
spond, without considerable self-restraint, to the frequent 


2l8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


advances which she never failed to recognize, however distant 
she might appear, and she would not have possessed a 
woman's nature had she been indifferent to admiring glances 
and the overtures of those who would gladly form her ac- 
quaintance. Still it must be admitted that her good resold 
tions were fast weakening in this direction. 

Mildred’s dangers were quite different from those which 
assailed Belle, and yet they were very grave ones. Her mind 
and heart were preoccupied. She was protected from even 
the desire of perilous associations and pleasures by the deli- 
cacy and refinement of her nature and h«r Christian princi- 
ple. She shrank from social contact with the ruder world by 
which she was now surrounded ; she felt and lived like one 
in exile, and her hope was to return to her native land. In 
the mean time she was growing pale, languid, morbid, and, 
occasionally, even irritable, from the lack of proper exercise 
and change. She was not discouraged as yet, but the day oi 
deliverance seemed to grow more distant. Her father ap- 
parently was declining in energy and health, and his income 
was very small. She worked long hours over her fancy work, 
but the prices paid for it at the shops were so small that she 
felt with a growing despondency it was but a precarious means 
of support. Their first month in the old mansion was draw- 
ing to a close, and they had been compelled to draw slightly 
on the small sum of ready money still remaining after pay- 
ing for their summer’s board. They still had a few articles 
in storage, having retained them in hope of moving, at no 
distant time, into more commodious quarters. 

In their desire for economy they also fell into the very com- 
mon error of buying salt fish and meat, and other articles of 
food that were cheap and easily prepared rather than nutri- 
tious, and Belle was inclined to make her lunch on pastry 
and cake instead of food. In teaching them a better way 
Mrs. Wheaton proved herself a very useful friend. ‘ ‘ Vat 


SE VERAL Q UIE T FORCES A T WORK. 2 1 9 

yer vant is sumthink that makes blood an' stands by von, M 
vshe had said ; “ an’ this ’ere salt, dry stuff an’ light baker’s 
bread and tea and coffee don’t do this hat hall. They’s good 
henough as relishes an’ trimmins an’ roundins hoff, but they 
hain’tgot the nourishin’ in ’em that vorking people vants. 
Buy hoat meal an’ corn meal — make good bread of yer 
hown. Buy good but cheap chunks of beef an’ mutton an’ 
wegetables, an’ make stews an’ meat pies an’ rich soups, an’ 
say yer prayers hagainst hall trashy things as hain’ t vorth the 
trouble of heatin’. Heggs, too, ven they’re plenty, hare 
fust-rate, an’ milk is better than so much tea an’ coffee, heven 
if the milkman do spill it in the brook an’ pick it hout hagain 
before ve get it. Vorkin’ hon tea an’ coffee is like keepin’ 
the ’orse hagoin’ on a vip hinstead of hoats.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were sensible enough to take 
her advice, and although Belle complained at first over the 
more simple and wholesome diet, she soon felt so much the 
better for it that she made no further trouble. 

As had been the case at the farm-house, Mildred at last 
awakened to the evils of a depressed and sedentary life, and 
felt that she must look around for objects of interest. She 
began to spend more time with Mrs. Wheaton, and found 
considerable amusement in her homely common-sense. 
The good woman was all the more companionable for the 
reason that she never presumed on a coarse familiarity or in- 
dulged in a prying interest. Mildred also aided the Whea- 
ton children in their lessons, and gave more time to her own 
little brother and sister, taking them out to walk in the cool 
of the day, and giving much thought, while she plied her 
needle, to various little expedients that would keep them 
content to remain away from the street and the rude children 
that often made the old house resound with boisterous sport. 
Mrs. Wheaton’s children were in the main well behaved, 
and there was much visiting back and forth among the little 


220 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


people of the two families, but here the line was drawn, and 
generally with very good reason. After all, perhaps, the chief 
horror of tenement life to a family like the Jocelyns consisted 
in the fact that just outside their door were hordes of prowl- 
ing little savages ignorant in the main of civilization, but 
prematurely enlightened as to its vices. To prevent the in- 
evitable contamination which would result from indiscrimi- 
nate association, and to interest Fred and Minnie in their 
daily lessons, was the constant effort of both Mildred and 
Mrs. Jocelyn. And yet, as at the farm-house, Mildred’s 
conscience began to reproach her for keeping too much aloof 
from the people who dwelt with her in the old mansion. It 
was not necessary to make companions of them in order to 
do them some good, and in aiding them to bear their burdens 
she might in part forget her own. Mrs. Wheaton’s hearty 
kindness permeated the house like an atmosphere, and from 
her Mildred learned the character and circumstances of each 
family quite correctly. “ I can get hon with ’em hall hex- 
cept a hold daft German on the top floor, oos a bit crazy 
hover the ’evens, but don’t stand much chance of hever 
gettin’ hup hinto ’em. You’ve hoften seen ’ima-lookin’ at 
the stars an’ things on the roof. ’E ’alf starves ’is family to 
buy books an’ maps an’ a telescope. ’E ’ates me cos I 
tried to talk religion to ’im vonce ven ’e vas sick, an’ cos I 
told ’im ’e ’ad no bizness to take his death a’ cold on the 
roof o’ vinter nights ; an ’ ven ’ e vonce gets a grudge hagainst 
yer ’e never lets hup.” 

Mildred had already become more interested in this old 
man than in any other of her neighbors except Mrs. Whea- 
ton, but had found him utterly unapproachable. Not in- 
frequently she spent part of the hot evenings on the platform 
built over the old hip-roof, and had invariably seen him there 
on cloudless nights studying the skies with a telescope that 
appeared to be by no means a toy instrument ; but he always 


SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK. 


221 


took possession of the far end of the platform, and was so 
savage when any one approached that even Belle was afraid 
of him. His wife, for a wonder, was a slattern German, and 
she spoke English very imperfectly. With her several small 
children she lived in a chaotic way, keeping up a perpetual 
whining and fault-finding, half under her breath from fear of 
her irascible husband, that was like a “continual dropping 
on a very rainy day. ’ ’ Ever)' now and then, Mrs. Wheaton 
said, he would suddenly emerge from his abstraction and 
break out against her in a volley of harsh, guttural German 
oaths that were “ henough to make von’s 'air riz.” There- 
fore it very naturally happened that Mildred had become ac- 
quainted with all the other families before she had even 
spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Uiph. On the other inmates of the 
mansion her influence soon began to be felt ; for almost un- 
consciously she exercised her rare and subtle power of intro- 
ducing a finer element into the lives of those who were grow- 
ing sordid and material. She had presented several families 
with a sm?-U house-plant, and suggested that they try to de- 
velop slips from others that she sedulously tended in her own 
window. In two or three instances she aided untidy and 
discourage 1 women to make their rooms more attractive. The 
fact, also, that the Jocelyns had made their two apartments, 
that were little if any better than the others, so very inviting 
had much weight, and there sprang up quite an emulation 
among «ome of the simple folk in making the most of their 
limited resources. 

‘ ‘ Instead of scolding your husbands for going out and per- 
haps taking a glass too much, try and keep them home by 
making the living-room homelike,” she had said on several 
occasions to complaining wives who had paved the way by 
their confidential murmurings. “ Have some extra dish 
that they like for supper — they will spend more if they go 
out — then be a little smiling and chatty, and tell them to 


322 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


light their pipes and stay with you, for you are a bit lone- 
some. If they will have their mug of beer, coax them to 
take it here at home. Try to put a few shillings in the 
savings bank every week, and talk over little plans of saving 
more. If you can only make your husbands feel that they 
are getting ahead a little, it will have a great influence in 
steadying them and keeping them out of bad company. ’ ' 
Mildred had a genius for everything relating to domestic 
life, and an almost unbounded belief in good home influences. 
Although she rarely talked religion directly to the people 
whom she was trying to benefit — she was much too diffident 
and self-depreciative for this — her regular attendance at some 
place of worship on the Sabbath and her course toward poor 
Mrs. Bute and her daughter had given the impression that 
she was a very religious girl, and that her motives were Chris- 
tian in character. People's instincts are quick in discerning 
the hidden springs of action ; and her influence was all the 
more effective because she gave them the fruits of faith rather 
than stems of exhortation on which they were required to de- 
velop fruit of their own. Much good fruit was eventually 
produced, but more through her example, her spring-like 
fluence, than from any formal instruction. 


“HE'S A MAN." 


233 


CHAPTER XXL 

"he’s a man." 

M RS. WHEATON, although she had the good taste f) 
ask few questions, was much puzzled over the Joce- 
lyns. Mr. Jocelyn’s state of health seemed to her very pe- 
culiar, and her shrewd, unprejudiced mind was approaching 
Roger’s conclusion, that he was a little “off.” With an in- 
sight common to sound, thrifty people, she saw that the out- 
look for this family was dubious. She believed that the 
father would become less and less of a reliance, that Mrs. 
Jocelyn was too delicate to cope with a lower and grimmer 
phase of poverty, which she feared they could not escape. 
When alone she often shook her head in foreboding over 
Belle’s brilliant black eyes, being aware from long experi- 
ence among the poor how dangerous are such attractions, 
especially when possessed by an impulsive and unbalanced 
child. She even sighed more deeply and often over Mildred, 
for she knew well that more truly than any of the house- 
plants in the window the young girl who cared for them was 
an exotic that might fade and die in the changed and un- 
favorable conditions of her present and prospective life. The 
little children, too, were losing the brown and ruddy hues 
they had acquired on the Atwood farm, and very naturally 
chafed over their many and unwonted restrictions. 

Nor did the city missionary whom she had called in to 
attend Mrs. Bute’s funeral illumine the Jocelyn problem for 
the good woman. He was an excellent man, but lamentably 


224 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


deficient in tact, being prone to exhort on the subject of 
religion in season, and especially out of season, and in 
much the same way on all occasions. Since the funeral he 
had called two or three times, and had mildly and rathei 
vaguely harangued Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred. Instead of 
echoing his pious platitudes with murmurs of assent and ap- 
proval, they had been very polite, and also very reticent and 
distant ; and Mr. Woolling — that was his name — had said in 
confidence to Mrs. Wheaton that “ they might be good 
people, but he feared they were not yet altogether ‘ in the 
light. ’ They seemed a little cold toward the good cause, 
and were not inclined to talk freely of their spiritual experi- 
ences and relations. Probably it was because they were not 
altogether orthodox in their views. ’ ’ 

It would seem that this worthy person had taken literally 
the promise of his Master, “ I will make you fishers of men,” 
for he was quite content to be a fisher. Let us hope that 
occasionally, as by a miracle, his lenient Master enabled him 
to catch some well-disposed sinner ; but as a rule his man- 
nerism, his set phrases, his utter lack of magnetism and ap- 
preciation of the various shades of character with which he 
was dealing, repelled even those who respected his motive 
and mission. Sensitive, sad-hearted women like Mrs. Joce- 
lyn and Mildred could no more open their hearts to him 
than to a benevolent and impersonal board of trustees sitting 
around a green baize table. That detestable class, however, 
who thrive on opening their hearts and dilating on their 
spiritual experiences, could talk to him, as he would say, in 
a ‘ * most editying and godly manner , ' 5 and through him, in 
consequence, reap all the pecuniary advantages within his 
power to bestow. 

It is not the blatant and plausible poor who suffer, but 
those who hide their poverty and will starve rather than trade 
on their faith ; and too often Christian and charitable organi- 


“HE'S A MAN, 


* 2 5 


zations prove they are not the “ children of this world ” by 
employing agents so lacking in fitness for the work that a 
commercial firm, following a like policy, would soon com- 
pass its own failure. The Church deserves slight progress 
if it fails to send its best and most gifted men and women 
among the poor and vicious. Mr. Woolling was a sincere, 
well- meaning man, but he no more knew how to catch men 
with a Christ-like magnetism and guile than how to render 
one of Beethoven’s symphonies ; and he was so constituted 
that he could never learn. It was an open question whether 
he did not do more harm than good ; and those who em- 
ployed him might and ought to have known the fact. 

Fortunately for the Jocelyns, there were other workers in 
that part of the vineyard, and Mrs. Wheaton had said to her- 
self more than once, ‘ ‘ Ven my young lady comes ’ome she >1 
git ’old of these ’ere people and make things better for ’em.” 
One day, about the middle of September, there was a light 
knock at the door of the large living-room that had been 
made so inviting. Mildred opened it and admitted a young 
woman, who appeared not very much older than herself, and 
who she saw at a glance was of her own class in respect to 
refinement and cultivation. Although entire strangers, the 
eyes of the two girls met in woman’s intuitive recognition. 

“ This is Miss Jocelyn, I think,” said the visitor in an ac* 
cent that to the poor girl sounded like her native tongue, so 
long unheard. 

“ You are correct,” replied Mildred, with exploring eyes 
and a quiet and distant manner. “ Will you please be seat- 
ed,” she added after a moment, as the young lady evidently 
wished to enter. 

It was in the afternoon, and the room had its usual pretty 
order at that hour. Fred and Minnie were seated by Mrs. 
Jocelyn, who was giving them their daily lesson from an 
illustrated primer ; and they, with their mother, turned ques' 


*2 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


tioning eyes on the unexpected guest, who won their good' 
will almost instantly by a sunshiny smile. Then turning to 
Mildred she began, with a quiet, well-bred ease which made 
her visit seem perfectly natural, “ We are now strangers, 
but I trust we shall not remain such very long. Indeed, I 
am already sure that you can help me very much. ’ ’ (This 
asking help instead of offering it was certainly adroit policy. ) 
“I am a Christian worker in this district. My name is 
Alice Wetheridge. I am well acquainted with Mrs. Whea- 
ton, and the little she has told me about you has made me 
wish to know you well ; and I trust you will meet me with 
the spirit in which I come — that of honest friendliness and 
respect. I shall be just as frank with you as you wish, and 
I know you have just as much right to your feelings and 
views as I have to mine. It is our plan of work to co-work 
cordially, asking each one to choose her own place and kind 
of effort. I have been around among some of rny families 
in this house, and, if you will permit me to say it, I have seen 
your influence, and I think it is most Christian and womanly. 
You can scarcely blame me, then, if I hope to find in you a 
congenial fellow- worker. ' ' 

These remarks contained no hint of poverty or inferior- 
ity, and might have been made to Mildred in her old home. 
The sweet, low voice in which they were spoken was sooth- 
ing and winning, while her visitor’s gaze was direct and sin- 
cere. Mildred smiled with a little answering friendliness as 
she said, ‘ ‘ Please do not expect much from me. I fear I 
shall disappoint you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I shall not expect anything more than your own feelings 
prompt and your own conscience can warrant. I and some 
friends have classes at a mission chapel not far from here, and 
all I ask at first is that you and Mrs. Jocelyn attend service 
at the chapel and see how you like us and how you like oui 
minister.” 


“ HE'S A MAN. 


227 


“ Is — is his name Mr. Woolling ?” faltered Mildred. 

A slight, evanescent smile flitted across the visitor s face. 
“ No,” she said, “ that is not his name. Our minister has 
just returned from Europe, where he has taken a well-de- 
served vacation. I, too, have only come in town within the 
last few days, otherwise I do not think you would have 
escaped us so long, ’ ’ she concluded, with a bright smile, but 
after a moment she added earnestly, ‘ ‘ Please do not think 
that we shall try to force upon you associations that may not 
be pleasant. We only ask that you come and judge for 
yourselves.” 

“ What you ask is certainly reasonable,” said Mildred 
thoughtfully, and with an inquiring glance at her mother. 

“ I agree with you, Millie,” her mother added with gentle 
emphasis, for she had been observing their visitor closely ; 
* and I think we both appreciate Miss Wetheridge’s motive 
in calling upon us, and can respond in like spirit.” 

‘ ‘ I thank you, ’ ’ was the cordial reply. ‘ * On this card is 
Written my address and where to find our chapel, the hours 
of service, etc. Please ask for me next Sabbath afternoon, 
and I will sit with you, so you won’t feel strange, you know. 
After the service is over we will remain a few moments, and I 
will introduce you to our minister. As I said at first, if you 
don’t like us or our ways you must not feel in the least tram- 
melled. However that may be, I trust you will let me 
come and see you sometimes. It was my duty to call upon 
you because you were in my district ; but now it will be a 
pleasure to which I hope you will let me look forward.” 

“ You will be welcome,” said Mildred smilingly. “ I 
can at least promise so much.” 

Miss Wetheridge had slipped off her glove while talking, 
and in parting she gave a warm, friendly palm to those she 
wished to win. She had intended only a smiling leave-taking 
of the children, but they looked so pretty, and were regard- 


228 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


ing her with such an expression of shy, pleased interest, that 
she acted on her impulse and kissed them both. “ I don t 
often meet such kissable children,” she said, with a bright 
flush, “ and I couldn’t resist the temptation.” 

The room seemed lighter the rest of the day for her visit. 
If she had kissed the children out of policy Mrs. Jocelyn 
would have been resentfully aware of the fact ; but they were 
“ kissable” children, and no one knew it better than the fond 
mother, who was won completely by the spontaneity of the 
act. 

“ Millie, I think I’d go to her church, even if Mr. Wool- 
ling were the minister,” she said, with her sweet laugh. 

“Soft-hearted little mother!” cried Mildred gay ly ; “if 
people only knew it, you have one very vulnerable side. 
That was a master-stroke on the part of Miss Wetheridge. ” 

“ She didn’t mean it as such, and if some good people had 
kissed the children I’d have washed their faces as soon as 
they had gone. The visit has dons you good, too, Millie.” 

“Well, I admit it has. It was nice to see and hear one 
of our own people, and to feel that we were not separated by 
an impassable gulf. To tell the truth, I feel the need of 
something outside of this old house. I am beginning to 
mope and brood. I fear it will be some time before the way 
opens back to our former life, and one grows sickly if one 
lives too long in the shade. I could work with such a girl as 
that, for she wouldn’ t humiliate me. See, her card shows 
that she Tires on Fifth Avenue. If she can work in a mission 
chapel, I can, especially since she is willing to touch me 
with her glove off,” she concluded, with a significant smile. 

As the evening grew shadowy Mildred took the children 
out for their walk, and, prompted by considerable curiosity, 
she led the way to Fifth Avenue, and passed the door on 
which was inscribed the number printed on Miss Wetheridge’ $ 
card. The mansion was as stately and gave as much evi- 


“ HE'S A MAN." 


129 


dence of wealth as Mrs. Arnold’s home. At this moment a 
handsome carriage drew up to the sidewalk, and Mildred, 
turning, blushed vividly as she met the eyes of her new ac- 
quaintance, who, accompanied by a fashionably-attired young 
man, had evidently been out to drive. Mildred felt that she 
had no right to claim recognition, for a young woman mak- 
ing mission calls in ber “ district” and the same young lady 
on Fifth Avenue with her fiance , very probably, might be, 

' > often are, two very distinct persons. The girl was about 

to pass on with downcast eyes and a hot face, feeling that 
her curiosity had been well punished. But she had not 
taken three steps before a pleasant voice said at her side, 
“ Miss Jocelyn, what have I done that you won’t speak to 
me ? This is my home, and I hope you will come and see 
me some time.” 

Mildred looked at the speaker searchingly for a moment, 
and then said, in a low tone and with tearful eyes, “ May 
you never exchange a home like this, Miss Wetheridge, for 
one like mine.” 

“ Should it be my fortune to do so — and why may it not ? 
— I hope I may accept of my lot with your courage, Miss 
Jocelyn, and give to my humbler home the same impress of 
womanly refinement that you have imparted to yours. Be- 
lieve me, I respected you and your mother thoroughly the 
moment I crossed your threshold.” 

“ I will do whatever you wish me to do,” washer relevant, 
although seemingly irrelevant, reply. 

“ That’s a very big promise,” said Miss Wetheridge viva- 
ciously ; ‘‘we will shake hands to bind the compact,” and 
her attendant raised his hat as politely as he would to any of 
his companion’s friends. 

Mildred went home with the feeling that the leaden monot- 
ony of her life was broken. The hand of genuine Christian 
sympathy, not charity or patronage, had been reached across 


230 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


the chasm of her poverty, and by it she justly hoped that she 
might be led into new relations that would bring light and 
color into her shadowed experience. 

With her mother and Belle she went to the chapel on the 
following Sunday afternoon, and found her new friend on the 
watch for them. The building was plain but substantial, 
and the audience-room large and cheerful looking. Mr. 
Woolling was, in truth, not the type of the tall, rugged-featured 
man who sat on the platform pulpit, and Mildred, at first, 
was not prepossessed in his favor, but as he rose and began 
to speak she felt the magnetism of a large heart and brain ; 
and when he began to preach she found herself yielding to 
the power of manly Christian thought expressed in honest 
Saxon words devoid of any trace of affectation, scholasticism, 
and set phraseology. He spoke as any sensible, practical 
man would speak concerning a subject in which he believed 
thoroughly and was deeply interested, and he never once 
gave the impression that he was ‘ ‘ delivering a sermon’ ’ which 
was foreordained to be delivered at that hour. It was a mes- 
sage rather than a sermon, a sincere effort to make the people 
understand just what God wished them to know concerning 
the truth under consideration, and especially what they were 
to do in view of it. The young girl soon reached the con- 
clusion that the religion taught in this chapel was not some- 
thing fashioned to suit the world, but a controlling principle 
that brought the rich and poor together in their obedience to 
Him whose perfect life will ever be the law of the Christian 
Church. The attention of even mercurial Belle was obtained 
and held, and at the close of the address she whispered, 
“ Millie, that man talks right to one, and not fifty miles over 
your head. I’ll come here every Sunday if you will.” 

After the benediction the Rev. Mr. Wentworth came down 
from the pulpit — not in a bustling, favor-currying style, but 
with a grave, kindly manner — to speak to those who wished 


HE'S A MAN." 


232 

to see him. When he at last reached Mildred, she felt him 
looking at her in a way that proved he was not scattering his 
friendly words as a handful of coin is thrown promiscuously 
to the poor. He was giving thought to her character and 
need ; he was exercising his invaluable but lamentably rare 
gift of tact in judging how he should address these “ new 
people” of whom Miss Wetheridge had spoken. His words 
were few and simple, but he made Mrs. Jocelyn and Mil- 
dred feel that his interest in them was not official, but gen- 
uine, Christian, and appreciative. Belle very naturally shrank 
into the background. Her acquaintance with clergymen 
was not extensive, nor would it, I fear, ever have been in- 
creased by any efforts of her own ; therefore it was with 
some trepidation that she saw Mr. Wentworth giving her an 
occasional side glance while talking to her mother. She was 
about to bow very formally when introduced, but a smile 
broke over the man’s rugged features like a glow of sunshine, 
as he held out his hand and said, “ Miss Belle, I know you 
and I would be good friends if we had a chance. ’ ’ 

The girl’s impulsive nature responded as if touched by an 
electric spark, and with her usual directness the words in her 
mind were spoken. ‘ ‘ I like you already, ’ ’ she said. 

“ The liking is mutual then,” was Mr. Wentworth’s laugh- 
ing reply ; “ I’m coming to see you.” 

‘ ‘ But, sir, ’ ’ stammered the honest child, “I’m not good 
like my sister 

The clergyman now laughed heartily. “ All the more 
reason I should come, ’ ’ he said. 

“ Well, then, please come in the. evening, for I wouldn’t 
miss your visit for the world. ’ ’ 

‘ * I certainly shall, ' ’ and he named an evening early in the 
week; “and now,” he resumed, “my friend Miss Weth- 
eridge here has informed me of the conditions on which you 
have visited our chapel We propose to carry them out in 


23 * WITHOUT A HOME. 

good faith, and not put any constraint upon you beyond 
a cordial invitation to cast your lot with us. It’s a great 
thing to have a church home. You need not feel that you 
must decide at once, but come again and again, and perhaps 
by and by you will have a home feeling here. 

“I’m coming whether the rest do or not,” Belle remarked 
emphatically, and Mr. Wentworth gave her a humorous look 
which completed the conquest of her heart. 

“ Miss Wetheridge knows that my decision was already 
made,” said Mildred quietly, with an intelligent glance 
toward her friend ; “ and if there is any very, very simple 
work that I can do, I shall feel it a privilege to do the best 
I can. ’ ' 

She never forgot his responsive look of honest friendliness 
as he answered, “ The simplest work you do in that spirit 
will be blessed. Miss Wetheridge, I hope you will soon find 
some more people like Mrs. Jocelyn and her daughters. 
Good-by now for a short time,” and a moment later Mildred 
saw him talking just as kindly, but differently, to a very 
shabby-looking man. 

Mr. Wentworth was also a “ fisher of men,” but he fished 
intelligently, and caught them. 

Belle could hardly wait until she was in the street before 
exclaiming. “ He isn’t a bit like our o M minister. Why- 
why — he’s » 


SKILLED LABOR. 


33 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SKILLED LABOR. 

M ISS WETHERIDGE’S visit bade fair to occasion im- 
portant changes for the bettter in Mildred’s pros- 
pects. From Mrs. Wheaton the young lady had learned of 
her protegee s long hours of ill-repaid toil. She was eager to 
gain Mildred’ 6 confidence to an extent that would warrant 
some good advice, and after another call early in the week 
she induced the girl to come and see her and to open her 
heart fully in the privacy thus secured. Of course there was 
one secret jealously guarded, and the reader can well under- 
stand that Vinton Arnold’s name was not mentioned, and 
the disagreeable episode of Roger Atwood was not deemed 
worth speaking of. He was now but a fast-fading memory, 
for even Belle rarely recalled him. 

That the Jocelyns did not belong to the ordinary ranks of 
the poor, and that Mildred was not a commonplace girl, was 
apparent to Miss Wetheridge from the first. ; and it was her 
design to persuade her friend to abandon the overcrowded 
and ill-paid divisions of labor for something more in accord- 
ance with her cultivation and ability. Mildred soon proved 
that her education was too general and superficial to admit of 
teaching except in the primary departments, and as the 
schools were now in session it might be many months before 
any opening would occur. With a mingled sigh and laugh 
she said, “ The one thing I know how to do I shall probably 
never do — I could make a home, and I could be perfectly 
happy in taking care of it ' ' 


234 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


” Pardon me!’' cried Miss Wetheridge roguishly, “ that 
seems to me your inevitable fate, sooner or later. We are 
only counselling together how best to fill up the interval. 
My friend almost made me jealous by the way he talked 
about you the other evening. 

A faint color stole into Mildred’s face. “ All that’s past, 
I fear,” she said with low, sad emphasis, “and I would 
never marry merely for the sake of a home. My future is 
that of a working-woman unless papa can regain his former 
means. Even then I should not like to live an idle life. So 
the question is, What kind of work shall I do ? How can I 
do the most for the family, for I am troubled about papa’s 
health, and mamma is not strong. ’ ’ 

Her warm-hearted friend’s eyes grew moist as she looked 
intently and understanding^ into the clouded and beautiful 
face. In one of her pretty impulses that often broke through 
her polite restraint she exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Millie, you are a true 
woman. Please pardon my familiarity, but I can’ t tell you 
how much you interest me, how I respect you, and — and — 
how much I like you.’’ 

“ Nor can I tell you,” responded Mildred earnestly, “ how 
much hope and comfort you have already brought me. ' ’ 

“Come,” said Miss Wetheridge cheerily, “we will go 
down to the rooms of the Young Women’s Christian Associ- 
ation at once. We may get light there. The thing for you 
to do is to master thoroughly one or more of the higher 
forms of labor that are as yet uncrowded. That is what I 
would do.” 

While she was preparing for the street she observed Mil- 
dred’s eyes resting wistfully on an upright piano that formed 
part of the beautiful furniture of her private sanctum. “You 
are recognizing an old friend and would like to renew your 
acquaintance,” she said smilingly. “ Won’t you play whils 
I am changing my dress ?” 


SKILLED LABOR. 


*35 


‘ ' Perhaps I can best thank you in that way,” answered 
Mildred, availing herself of the permission with a pleasure 
she could not disguise. “ I admit that the loss of my piano 
has been one of my greatest deprivations. ’ ’ 

Miss Wetheridge’ s sleeping- apartment opened into her 
sitting-room, and, with the door open, it was the same as if 
they were still together. The promise of thanks was well 
kept as the exquisite notes of Mendelssohn’s “ Hope” 
and “ Consolation” filled the rooms with music that is 
as simple and enduring as the genuine feeling of a good 
heart. 

“ I now understand how truly you lost a friend and com- 
panion in your piano,” said Miss Wetheridge, “ and I wan* 
you to come over here and play whenever you feel like it, 
whether I am at home or not. ’ ’ 

Mildred smiled, but made no reply. She could accept 
kindness and help from one who gave them as did Miss 
Wetheridge, but she was too proud and sensitive to enter 
upon an intimacy that must of necessity be so one-sided in 
its favors and advantages, and she instinctively felt that such 
wide differences in condition would lead to mutual embarrass- 
ments that her enthusiastic friend could not foresee. It was 
becoming her fixed resolve to accept her lot, with all that it in- 
volved, and no amount of encouragement could induce her \o 
renew associations that could be enjoyed now only through a 
certain phase of charity, however the fact might be disguised. 
But she would rather reveal her purpose by the retiring and 
even tenor of her way than by any explanations of her feel- 
ings. Thus it came about in the future that Miss Wether- 
idge made three calls, at least, to one that she received, and 
that in spite of all she could do Mildred shrank from often 
meeting other members of her family. But this sturdy self- 
respect on the part of the young girl — this resolute purpose 
not to enter a social circle where she would at least fear pat- 


236 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


ronage and surprise at her presence — increased her friend's 
respect in the secrecy of her heart 

Mildred at once became a member of the Young Women’s 
Association, and its library and reading-room promised to 
become a continued means of pleasure and help. From 
among the several phases of skilled labor taught under the 
auspices of the Association, she decided to choose the highest 
— that of stenography — if her father thought he could support 
the family without much help for a few months. She was 
already very rapid and correct in her penmanship, and if she 
could become expert in taking short-hand notes she was 
assured that she could find abundant and highly remunerative 
scope for her skill, and under circumstances, too, that would 
not involve unpleasant publicity. She thought very favorably, 
also, of the suggestion that she should join the bookkeeping 
class. With her fine mental capacity and previous educa- 
tion Miss Wetheridge believed that Mildred could so far 
master these two arts as to be sure of an independence, and 
her kind friend proposed to use no little influence in finding 
opportunities for their exercise. 

Mildred, naturally, lost no time in explaining her projects 
to her father, and it so happened that she spoke at a moment 
of peculiar exhilaration on his part. “If it would give you 
pleasure,’’ he said, “to learn these two accomplishments, 
you may do so, of course, but I foresee no probability of 
your ever putting them to use. I now have prospects, ’ ’ etc. , 
etc. Soon after, he was in a deep sleep. She looked at 
him with troubled eyes, and promptly entered on her studies 
the following day, working with the assiduity of one who 
feels that the knowledge may be needed before it can be 
acquired. 

Belle was in quite a flutter of excitement on the evening 
named for Mr. Wentworth’s visit, and the genial clergyman 
would have laughed again could he have heard one of her 


SKILLED LABOR. 


*37 


reasons for welcoming him. “ He is so deliciously homely/’ 
she said, “ I like to look at him.” He came at the hour 
appointed, and his visit was truly a ‘ ‘ spiritual ’ ’ one, if en- 
livened spirits, more hopeful hearts, and a richer belief in 
their Divine Father’s good-will toward them all were the 
legitimate result oi a spiritual visit. Mr. Jocelyn, in expect- 
ancy of the guest, had carefully prepared himself in guilty 
secrecy, and appeared unusually well, but he was the only 
one who sighed deeply after the good man’s departure. 
Rising from the depths of his soul through his false exhila- 
ration was a low, threatening voice, saying, “ That man is 
true ; you are a sham, and your hollowness will become 
known. 

Indeed, Mr. Wentworth went away with a vague impres- 
sion that there was something unreal or unsound about Mr. 
Jocelyn, and he began to share Mrs. Wheaton’s painful fore- 
bodings for the family. Belle enjoyed the visit greatly, for 
the minister was an apostle of a very sunny gospel, and she 
was then ready for no other. Moreover, the healthful, un- 
warped man delighted in the girl’s frolicsome youth, and no 
more tried to repress her vivacity than he would the bubble 
and sparkle of a spring. Indeed he was sensible enough to 
know that, as the spring keeps pure by flowing and sparkling 
into the light, so her nature would stand a far better chance 
of remaining untainted if given abundant yet innocent scope. 
His genial words had weight with her, but her quick intuition 
of his sympathy, his sense of humor, which was as genuine as 
her own, had far more weight, and their eyes rarely met with- 
out responsive smiles. There was nothing trivial, however, 
in their interplay of mirthfulness — nothing that would prevent 
the child from coming to him should her heart become bur- 
dened with sin or sorrow. She was assigned to Miss Wether- 
idge’s class, and soon became warmly attached to her teacher. 
Mildred, to her great surprise, was asked to take a class of 


338 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


rude-looking, halt-grown boys. In answer to her look of 
dismay, Mr. Wentworth only said smilingly, ‘ Try it ; trust 
my judgment ; you can do more with those boys than I 
can.” 

“ Were it not for my promise to Miss Wetheridge, I 
shouldn’ t even dare think of such a thing, ’ ’ she replied ; 

“ but I now feel bound to attempt it, although I hope you 
will soon give me some very, very little girls. 

“ In complying you show a high sense of honor, Miss 
Jocelyn. I will relieve you after a time, if you wish me to, 
and the student of human nature walked away with a peculiar 
smile. ‘ ‘ When I was a harum-scarum boy, ’ ’ he muttered, 

‘ ‘ a girl with such a face could almost make me worship her. 

I don’ t believe boys have changed. ’ ' 

She was shrewd enough not to let the class see that she 
was afraid ; and being only boys, they saw merely what was 
apparent — that they had the prettiest teacher in the room. 
Her beauty and refinement impressed them vaguely, yet 
powerfully ; the incipient man within them yielded its invol- 
untary homage, and she appealed to their masculine traits as 
only a woman of tact can, making them feel that it would be 
not only wrong but ungallant and unmannerly to take ad- 
vantage of her. They all speedily succumbed except one, 
whose rude home associations and incorrigible disposition 
rendered futile her appeals. After two or three Sabbaths the 
other boys became so incensed that he should disgrace the 
class that after school they lured him into an alley-way and 
were administering a well-deserved castigation, when Mildred, 
who was passing, rescued him. His fear induced him to 
yield to her invitation to accompany her home ; and her 
kindness, to which he knew he was not entitled, combined 
with the wholesome effect of the pummelling received from 
the boys, led him to unite in making the class — once known 
as “ the Incorrigibles” — the best behaved in the school. 


SKILLED LABOR. 


339 


Everything apparently now promised well for the Jocelyns. 
Their mistaken policy of seclusion and shrinking from 
contact with the world during their impoverishment had given 
way to kindly Christian influences, and they were forming the 
best associations their lot permitted. All might have gone 
to their ultimate advantage had it not been for the hidden 
element of weakness so well known to the reader, but as yet 
unsuspected by the family. 

If Mr. Jocelyn had been able to put forth the efforts of a 
sound and rational man, he could, with the aid of his daugh- 
ters, even in those times of depression, have passed safely 
through the trials of sudden poverty, and eventually — having 
learned wisdom from the past experience — he could have re- 
gained a better and more stable financial position than the 
one lost. Thus far he had been able to maintain considerable 
self-control, and by daily experience knew just about how 
much morphia he could take without betraying himself. 
His family had become accustomed to its effects, and ascribed 
them to the peculiar state of his health. Loving eyes are 
often the most blind, and that which is seen daily ceases to 
seem strange. Beyond their natural solicitude over his failing 
appetite, his unwholesome complexion, and his loss of flesh, 
they had no misgivings. His decline was so very gradual 
that there was nothing to startle them. Every day they hoped 
to see a change for the better, and sought to bring it about 
by preparing such dainty dishes as were within their means 
to catch his capricious appetite, and by keeping all their little 
perplexities and worriments to themselves, so that he might 
have unbroken rest when free from business. He recognized 
their unselfish and considerate devotion, and it added to the 
horrible depression into which he sank more and more 
deeply the moment he passed from under the influence of the 
fatal drug. He was living over an abyss, and that which 
kept him from its depths was deepening and widening it 


2 40 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


daily. He still had the vague hope that at some time and in 
some way he could escape ; but days and weeks were pass- 
ing, bringing no change for the better, no honest, patient 
effort to regain the solid ground of safety. He was drifting 
down, and when at times he became conscious of the truth, 
a larger dose of morphia was his one method of benumbing 
the terror that seemed groping for his heart with a death-cold 
hand. 

Mildred soon began to make rapid progress in her studies, 
and grew hopeful over the fact. If her father would give her 
the chance she could make a place for herself among skilled 
workers within a year, and be able, if there were need, to pro- 
vide for the entire family. Great and prolonged destitution 
rarely occurs, even in a crowded city, unless there is much 
sickness or some destructive vice. Wise economy, patient 
and well-directed effort, as a rule, secure comfort and inde- 
pendence, if not affluence ; but continued illness, disaster, 
and especially sin, often bring with them a train of evils diffi- 
cult to describe. 

Mildred found time between her lessons to aid her mother 
and also to do a little fancy work, for which, through the aid 
of Miss Wetheridge, she found private customers who were 
willing to pay its worth. 

Thus the month of October was passing rapidly and rather 
hopefully away. They received letters from Clara Bute oc- 
casionally, wherein she expressed herself well content with 
the country and the situation Mrs. Atwood had obtained for 
her. “I’m getting as plump and rosy as Susan, ’ ’ she wrote, 
“ and I’m not coming back to town. Going up and down 
those tenement stairs tired me more than all the work I do 
here. Still, I work hard, I can tell you ; but it’ s all sorts of 
work, with plenty of good air and good food to do it on. 
I’m treted better than I ever was before — just like one of the 


SKILLED LABOR. 


z*f. 

family, and there's a young farmer who takes me out to rids 
sometimes, and he acts and talks like a man. 

Whether this attentive frien d were Roger or a new acquaint- 
ance she did not say. For some reason a reticence *a regard 
to the former characterized her letters. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


242 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE OLD ASTRONOMER. 

NE Saturday night Mildred was awakened from time 



to time by the wailing of a child. The sounds came 
from the rooms of the Ulphs, which were directly overhead, 
and by morning she was convinced that there was a case of 
serious illness in the German family. Led by her sympa- 
thies, and also by the hope of thawing the reserve of the 
eccentric old astronomer, she resolved to go and ask if she 
could be of any help. 

In response to her light knock a shock-headed, unkempt 
boy opened the door and revealed a state of chaos that might 
well have driven mad any student of the heavenly bodies with 
their orderly ways. There seemed to be one place for every- 
thing — the middle of the floor — and about everything was in 
this one place. In the midst of a desolation anything but 
picturesque, Mrs. Ulph sat before the fire with a little moan- 
ing baby upon her lap. 

“ I heard your child crying in the night,” said Mildred 
gently, ‘ ‘ and as we are neighbors I thought I would come 
up and see if I could help you.” 

The woman stared a moment and then asked, “ You Miss 
Schoslin ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, and I hope you will let me do something, for I 
fear you’ve been up all night and must be very tired.” 

“I’m shust dead ; not von vink of schleep haf I had all 
der night. He shust cry und cry, and vat I do I don’t 


THE OLD ASTRONOMER. 


24* 

know I fear he die. Der fader gone for der doctor, but 
he die ’fore dey gets here. Schee, he getten gold now." 

Truly enough, the child’s extremities were growing chill 
indeed, and the peculiar pinched look and ashen color 
which is so often the precursor of death was apparent. 

* 1 Let me call my mother," cried Mildred, in much alarm. 
“ She knows about children." 

Mrs. Jocelyn soon became convinced from the mother's 
account that the child’s disease was cholera infantum, and 
some previous experience with her own children taught her 
just what to do. Before very long the little one gave evi- 
dence of a change for the better. After the crisis of danger 
was past, and while her mother and Mrs. Ulph were working 
over the infant, Mildred began quietly to put the room into 
something like order, and to dress the other children that 
were in various transition states between rags and nakedness. 
As the German woman emerged from a semi-paralyzed con- 
dition of alarm over her child she began to talk and complain 
as usual. 

‘ ‘ It vas von shudgment on der fader, ’ ’ she said querulous- 
ly. “ He care more for der schpots on der sun dan for his 
schilder. For der last veek it’s all peen schpots on der sun, 
notting put schpots. Vat goot dey do us? Dare’s peen 
light to vork py, put efry minit he schtop vork to run to der 
roof und see dem schpots vot he says on der sun. He says 
dere ish — vat you call him — pig virl-a-rounds up dere dat 
vould plow all der beoples off der earth in von vink, und ven 
I tells him dat he ish von pig virl-a-round himself, runnin' 
und runnin’, und lettin’ der vork schstand, den von of der 
schpots come outen on him und I dink he plow my hed 
offen." 

By and by she began again : "If it ish not schpots it ish 
someding else. Von year he feel vorse dan if I die pegose 
vat you call a gomet did not gome ven he said it vould 


244 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


gome. He near look his eyes outen for it, und he go efry 
morning ’fore preakfast for der bapers to get vord of dat 
gomet. I dought ve all schtarve ’fore he got done mit dot 
gomet, and ven he give oup all hope of him, he feel vorse 
dan he vould if dis schild die. He vas so pad to me as if J 
eat der gomet oup, * und ve had not mooch else to eat till he 
sure der gomet gone to der duyvil. It might haf peen vorse 
if der gomet gome ; vat he done den der goot Lord only 
know — he go off mit it if he gould. He tink notting of 
sittin’ oup mit a gomet, put he get der schpots on him ven 
I ask to nurse der schild in der night.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred paid little attention to her 
plaints ; and the former, having done what she could, returned 
to her own family cares. Mildred took the little sick boy in 
her arms, saying that she would hold him while Mrs. Ulph 
prepared breakfast. 

It was at this stage of affairs that the door opened, and the 
pinched and grizzled visage of Mr. Ulph appeared, followed 
by the burly form of a German physician whom he had in- 
sisted on finding. The former stopped short and stared at 
Mildred, in grim hesitation whether he should resent an in- 
trusion or acknowledge a kindness. His wile explained 
rapidly in German, with a deferential manner, but in a sub- 
acidulous tone. 

“ I do not wish to intrude, but only to help as a neighbor 
should,’ ' Mildred began, during a lull between Mrs. Ulph’s 
shrill notes. “ I fear your little boy was very ill when I first 
came — indeed my mother thought he was dying. She knows, 
I think, for my little brother nearly died of an attack like 
this.” 

Beyond her explanation of Mildred’s presence he seemingly 
had given no heed to his wife’s words, but now he started 
and exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Mein Gott ! Vat you say ? Die ?* ’ and 
he turned with intense anxiety to the doctor, who without 


THE OLD ASTRONOMER. 


2 45 


ceremony began to investigate the case, asking the mother 
questions and receiving answers that Mildred did not under- 
stand. The woman evidently claimed all the credit she 
deserved for her care of the patient in the night, and sug- 
gested that Mr. Ulph had been very oblivious until the child 
seemed sinking, for the old man grew excessively impatient 
during the interrogations. As if unconscious of Mildred’s 
ignorance of their language, he said earnestly to her, “ I 
did not know — I voulcf gif my life for der schild — der boor 
leedle poy — I no dink dat he vas so sick,” and his eager 
words and manner convinced Mildred that his wife misrepre- 
sented him, and that his interest in the mystery of the com- 
et’s fate would be slight compared with that which centred 
in his son. 

The phlegmatic physician continued his investigations with 
true German thoroughness and deliberation. It was well 
that the child’s worst symptoms had been relieved before he 
came, for he seemed bent on having the whole history of the 
case down to the latest moment before he extended his heavy 
hand to the aid of nature, and he questioned Mildred as 
minutely as he had Mrs. Ulph, while she, unlike the former, 
did not take any credit to herself. 

If the doctor was a little slow, he was sure, for he said 
something emphatically to the father, who in turn seized Mil- 
dred’ s hand, exclaiming, with explosive energy, “ Gott pless 
you ! Gott pless you !” 

‘ ‘ But it was mamma who did everything, ’ ’ protested the 
young girl. 

‘ ‘ Yah, I know, I know ; put who prought mamma ? 
Who listen ven der boor leetle poy gry in der night ? Who 
gome in der morning ? Mine paby vould haf been ded if 
you haf not gome. Gott pless you ; Gott pless your moder. 
I vant to dank her mooch.” 

The grateful father had called down God’s blessings so 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


046 

lavishly that Mildred very naturally said, “You have more 
reason to thank God than any one else, Mr. Ulph, for no 
doubt it was His blessing on our efforts that has made your 
child better. The disease is such a dangerous one, that the 
best human skill is often in vain. ’ ’ 

The physician shrugged his shoulders and looked signifi- 
cantly at Mr. Ulph, whose visage wrinkled into an odd 
grimace. 

“You may dink vat you please and say vat you please, 
Miss Schoslin. Men dink different off dese dinks vrom 
vomans. I haf a vay off saying Gott pless beoples ven I feels 
goot dowards ’ em, put I means ’ em no harm. Vat you 
American beoples somedimes say — dank my schtars ? Dat 
will do shust so veil for me. It vas dis vay : der schild vas 
seek ; you und your moder gome, und you make gauses und 
dere are der evvects. I perlieve in gause und ewect, und you 
vas a very goot gause. ’ ’ 

“ We certainly should be very poor neighbors had we not 
come and done all we could, and with your permission 
mother and I will help your wife to-day so she can get some 
rest. ' ’ 

“ I dank you vrom mine heart. You make me dink off 
der heafenly podies — you make order put no noise. I vill 
do for you vatefer you vish und pe honest.” 

Mildred now believed that she had gained the key to the 
old German’s character, and such a hold upon his feelings 
that he would eventually permit her to become his companion 
in his star-gazing on the roof. Denied so much of the beauty 
she craved on the earth, she believed that she could find in an 
intelligent study of the skies a pleasure that would prove an 
antidote for the depressing circumstances of her lot She 
had often longed with intense curiosity to look through his 
telescope, and to penetrate some of the bright mysteries that 
glittered above her with such tantalizing suggestion. She 


THE OLD ASTRONOMER. 


247 


was adroit, however, and determined that the invitation 
should come unsolicited from him, so that his suspicions and 
cynical nature could give no sinister interpretation to her 
kindness. 

The physician evidently shared in Mr. Ulph’s estimate of 
the mother of the child, for he explained to Mildred how the 
remedies he left should be used. She and Mrs. Jocelyn 
•acted as nurse most of the day, and the patient improved 
steadily. After her return from the chapel in the afternoon, 
Mildred found the old German smoking his pipe in quite a 
placid mood, and she skilfully led him to talk on his favorite 
theme. He soon became so interested and so confidential 
that he unlocked a small, closet-like room and showed her 
his treasures — the telescope and other instruments, Argelan- 
der’s maps, and many books written by the most eminent 
authorities. 

“I haf gone mitout mine dinner many und many der day 
to puy dese. Mine pody schtays in dis hole in dis old house ; 
put mit dese vat I gather since ven I vas young, I go to 
heafen every night. Hah, hah, hah ! dot Engleesh voman 
on der virst vloor dink she know a petter vay off going to 
heafen ; und she dalk her reeleegious schargon to me, ven she 
know notting at all put vat der briests dell her. If dey dell 
her de moon von pig green scheese she swar it ish so ; put 
dese dings dell der druf, und der great laws vork on for efer 
no matter vat voolish beoples perlieve. It vas all law und 
vorce, und it vould pe von pig muddle inderheafens if it vas 
all vat der briests say. 

Mildred was in a dilemma, for she felt that she could not 
be silent under his outspoken scepticism, and yet if she re- 
vealed her mind she doubted whether there would be any 
result except the alienation of the man whose friendship she 
was bent on securing. After a moment’s hesitation she saw 
but one honorable course, and so said firmly, ' Mr. Ulph, 


WITHOUT A HOME. , 


248 

I believe you are an honest man, but I want you to think of 
me as an honest girl, also. If I wanted to know about 
astronomy — and I do want to know very much — I would 
come to you. If I wanted to know about some other things 
I would go to my minister. I believe in law as truly as you 
do, but I believe God made the laws — that they are simply 
His will. If I respect your unbelief, you must respect my 
faith — that is fair ; and I think you are one who would Jeal 
fairly and do justice to all. Mrs. Wheaton knows little of 
astronomy and many other things, no doubt, but she has 
known how to be a very kind, good neighbor to us, and her 
religion is mine.” 

The old German stared at her a moment, then scratched 
his head as he replied, half apologetically and half pityingly, 
“ You vas notting put a leedle schild, put you haf a goot 
heart. You vas honest, und you schtands oop vor your 
vriends, und I likes dot. You may perlieve all der vables 
you vish ; und I vill dells you more vables apout der schtars 
dat ish shust so goot und shust so old. ’ ’ 

“ But you will tell me the truth about them, too, won’: 
you ?” pleaded Mildred, with a smile that would have thawed 
a colder nature than Mr. Ulph’s. “ I want to learn a wee 
bit of what you know. I have so little that is bright and 
pretty in my life now that I just long to catch some glimpses 
of what you see in the skies. Perhaps I could help you by 
writing down your observations. I would ask questions 
only when you said I might.” 

“ Veil, now, dot’s a goot idea. Mine eyes vas getten old, 
und you vas young, put it von’ t last ; you vas a young ding, 
und girls vas vlighty and vant — vat you call him ? — peaux 
und vrolics ven der nights vas goot and glear. ’ ’ 

“ Try me,” said Mildred, with a little emphatic nod. 

“ Veil, you don’t seem likes von silly girl, und I vfll dry 
you ; put you moost pe very schteady und batient, und but 


THE OLD ASTRONOMER. 


249 

down shust vhat I say. Von leedle schlip, und I vas all 
vrong in mine vigures. Von preadth off hair down here ish 
oh — so vide oop dere. Und now, gome, I tells you apout 
der schpots — der sun schpots, ” and with many odd gesticu- 
lations and contortions of his quaint visage he described the 
terrific cyclones that were sweeping over the surface of the 
sun at that time, and whose corresponding perturbations in 
the astronomer's mind had so exasperated his wife. She and 
the sick child were now sleeping, and the other children, 
warned by the threatening finger of the father, played quietly 
in a corner. It was an odd place to conjure up images of 
whirling storms of fire so appallingly vast that the great earth, 
if dropped into one of them, would be fused instantly like a 
lump of ore in a blast furnace ; but the grotesque little man 
was so earnest, so uncouth, yet forcible, in his suggestions 
as he whirled his arms around to indicate the vast, resistless 
sweep of the unimaginable forces working their wild will 
millions of miles away, that their truth and reality grew pain- 
fully vivid to the young girl, and she trembled and shuddered. 
The roar of the wildest storm, he told her, and the bellowing 
of mountainous waves combined, would be but a murmur 
compared with the far-reaching thunder of a sun hurricane as 
it swept along hundreds of times faster than clouds are ever 
driven by an earthly tornado. There was nothing in her 
nature which led her to share in his almost fierce delight in 
the far-away disturbances, and he suddenly stopped and said 
kindly, “ Vy I vrighten you mit sooch pig gommotions ? 
You shust von leedle schild off a voman ; und I likes you 
pegause you haf prain so you see und know vat I say. You 
see him too mooch, und so you dremble. Dot's goot. If 
you vas silly you vould giggle. Der schpots ish a goot way 
offen, und vill nefer virl you away ; und next dime I dells 
you someding schmooth und britty. 

Mildred was glad to hasten through the gathering dusk to 


250 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


her own natural and homelike abode, for the old man's 
strong descriptions and vivid manner had oppressed her with 
a vague terror, and it was a long time before she could escape 
from the spell of his words. Indeed they followed her into 
her dreams, and in one of these dreadful visions she im- 
agined herself shot by the old astronomer through his tele- 
scope straight into the centre of a “ sun schpot. ’ Whom 
should she find there in her uncurbed imagination but Roger 
Atwood. He seemed to be standing still, and he coolly re- 
marked that “ a man had no business to be whirled about by 
any force in the universe." She, however, was carried mil- 
lions of miles away — a fact she did not so much regret, even 
in her dream, since he was left behind 


ROGER REA P PEA R S. 


351 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

ROGER REAPPEARS. 

R OGER ATWOOD had entered Mildred's mind as a 
part of a grotesque dream, but he had no place in hei 
waking thoughts. With Vinton Arnold, however, it was 
very different, and scarcely an hour passed that she was not 
wondering where he was, and again questioning his pro- 
longed silence. Often her heart beat quick as she imagined 
she caught a glimpse of him in the street ; and it must be 
admitted that she looked for him constantly, although she 
took pains never to pass his residence. Could he be ill, 01 
was he patiently waiting like herself, secure in her good 
faith ? She longed to see him, even though unseen herself, 
and one Sunday early in November she yielded to her strong 
desire to look upon one in reality who had become an abid- 
ing presence in her mind. She believed that from a certain 
part of the gallery in the church they both had attended in 
former days she could look down upon the Arnold pew. If 
he were not ill she felt quite sure he would be in his old 
place. 

It was almost with a sense of guilty intrusion that she 
crossed the threshold of her old church-home and stole to the 
thinly occupied gallery. She saw familiar faces, but shrank 
from recognition in almost trembling apprehension, scarcely 
feeling secure behind her thick veil. The place, once so 
familiar, now seemed as strange as if it belonged to another 
world ; and in a certain sense she felt that it was part of a 


WITHOUT A HOME 


* 5 2 

world with which she would never willingly identify herself 
again. It was a place where fashion was supreme, and not 
the spirit of Christ, not even the spirit of a broad, honest, 
and earnest humanity. The florid architecture, the high- 
priced and elegantly upholstered pews, sparsely occupied by 
people who never wished to be crowded under any possible 
circumstances, and preferred not to touch each other except 
in a rather distant and conventional way, the elaborately ritu- 
alistic service, and the cold, superficial religious philosophy 
taught, were all as far removed from the divine Son of Mary 
as the tinsel scenery of a stage differs from a natural land- 
scape. Mildred’s deep and sorrowful experience made its 
unreality painfully apparent and unsatisfactory. She re- 
solved, however, to try to give the sacred words that would 
be uttered their true meaning ; and, in fact, her sincere de- 
votion was like a simple flower blooming by the edge of a 
glacier. She felt that the human love she brought there and 
sought to gratify was pure and unselfish, and that in no sense 
could it be a desecration of the place and hour. To a nature 
like hers, her half-pitying love for one so unfortunate as 
Vinton Arnold was almost as sacred as her faith, and there- 
fore she had no scruple in watching for his appearance. 

Her quest was unrewarded, however, for no one entered 
the pew except Mr. Arnold and one of his daughters. The 
absence of Mrs. Arnold and the invalid son filled her with 
forebodings and the memory of the past ; the influence of 
the place combined with her fears was so depressing that by 
the time the service ended her tears were falling fast behind 
her veil. With natural apprehension that her emotion might 
be observed she looked hastily around, and, with a start, en- 
countered the eyes of Roger Atwood. Her tears seemed to 
freeze on her cheeks, and she half shuddered in strong revul- 
sion of feeling. She had come to see the man she loved ; 
after months of patient waiting she had at last so far yielded 


ROGER REAPPEARS. 


253 


to the cravings of her heart as to seek but a glimpse of one 
who fed her dearest earthly hope ; but his place is vacant. In 
his stead she finds, almost at her side, one whom she hoped 
never to see again ; and she knew he was offering through 
his dark eyes a regard loathed in her inmost soul. She 
was oppressed with a sudden, superstitious fear that she 
could not escape him — that he was endowed with such a re- 
morseless will and persistence that by some strange necessity 
she might yield in spite of herself. Belle’s words, “He’ll 
win you yet,’’ seemed like a direful prophecy. How it 
could ever be fulfilled she could not imagine ; but his mere 
presence caused a flutter of fear, and the consciousness that 
she was followed by a man pre-eminently gifted with that 
subtle power before which most obstacles crumble made her 
shiver with an undefined dread. 

She believed her veil had been no protection — that he had 
seen her emotion and divined its cause, indeed that nothing 
could escape his eyes. She also felt sure that he had come 
to the city to carry out the projects which he had vaguely 
outlined to her, and that henceforth she could never be sure, 
when away from home, that his searching eyes were not upon 
her. However well intentioned his motive might be, to her 
it would be an odious system of espionage. There was but 
one way in which she could resent it — by a cold and steadily 
maintained indifference, and she left the church without any 
sign of recognition, feeling that her lowered veil should have 
taught him that she was shunning observation, and that he 
had no right to w r atch her. She went home not only greatly 
depressed, but incensed, for it w’as the same to her as if she 
had been intruded upon at a moment of sacred privacy, and 
coldly scrutinized w'hile she was giving way to feelings that 
she would hide from all the world. That he could not know 
this, and that it w-’as no great breach of delicacy fui a young 
man to sit in the same church with a lady of hia acquaint* 


2 54 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


ance, and even to regard her with sympathy, she did not 
consider. She was in no mood to do him justice, and cir- 
cumstances had imbued her mind with intense prejudice. 
She was by no means perfect, nor above yielding to very un- 
just prejudices when tempted to them by so unwelcome an 
interest as that entertained by Roger Atwood. 

“ What’s the matter, Millie?” her mother asked, follow- 
ing her into her room where Belle was writing a letter to 
Clara Bute. 

Mildred concluded to tell all, for she feared Roger might 
goon appear and occasion awkward explanations, so she said, 
“* I felt, this morning, like having a glimpse of our old 
church and life. I suppose it was very weak and foolish, 
and I was well punished, for toward the end of the service 1 
was thinking over old times, and it all very naturally brought 
some tears. I looked around, and who, of all others, should 
be watching me but Roger Atwood. ’ ’ 

Belle sprang up and clapped her hands with a ringing 
laugh. “ That’s capital,” she cried. “ Didn’t I tell you, 
Millie, you couldn’t escape him ? You might just as well 
give in first as last. ’ ’ 

“ Belle,” said Mildred, in strong irritation, “ that kind of 
talk is unpardonable. I won’t endure it, and if such non- 
sense is to be indulged in Roger Atwood cannot come here. 
I shall at least have one refuge, and will not be persecuted in 
my own home. ’ ' 

“Belle,” added Mrs. Jocelyn gravely, “since Mildred 
feels as she does, you must respect her feelings. It would 
be indelicate and unwomanly to do otherwise.” 

“There, Millie, I didn’t mean anything,” Belle said, 
soothingly. ‘ ‘ Besides I want Roger to come and see us, for 
he can be jolly good company if he has a mind to ; and I 
believe he will come this afternoon or evening. For my 
sake you must all treat him well, for I want some one to talk 


ROGER REAPPEARS. 


255 


to once in a while — some one that mamma will say is a 
' good, well-meaning young man. ' The Atwoods have all 
been so kind to us that we must treat him well. It would 
be mean not to do so. No doubt he’s all alone in the city, 
too, and will be lonely.” 

“ There is no need of his being in the city at all,” Mil- 
dred protested. “ I’ve no patience with his leaving those 
who need him so much. I think of them, and am sure 
they feel badly about it, and likely enough are blaming me, 
when, if I had my way, he’d live and die in sight of his own 
chimney smoke.” 

“ Millie, you are unreasonable,” retorted Belle. “ Why 
h&sn’ t Roger Atwood as good a right to seek his fortune out 
in the world as other young men ? Papa didn’t stay on the 
old plantation, although they all wanted him to. What’s 
more, he has as good a right to like you as you have to dis- 
like him. I may as well say it as think it.” 

It was difficult to refute Belle’s hard common-sense, and 
her sister could only protest, “ Well, he has no right to be 
stealthily watching me, nor to persecute me with unwelcome 
attentions. ' ’ 

“ Leave it all to me, Millie,” said her mother gently. 
“ I will manage it so that Belle can have his society occa- 
sionally, and we show our good-will toward those who have 
been kind to us. At the same time I think I can shield you 
from anything disagreeable. He is pretty quick to take a 
hint ; and you can soon show him by your manner that you 
wish him well, and that is all. He’ll soon get over his half- 
boyish preference, or at least learn to hide it. You give to 
his feelings more importance than they deserve.” 

“I suppose I do,” Mildred replied musingly, “ but he 
makes upon me the queer impression that he will never leave 
me alone — that I can never wholly shake him off, and that 
he will appear like a ghost when I least expect it." 


256 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Belle smiled significantly. ‘ ‘ There, you might as well 
speak plainly as look in that way/’ Mildred concluded irri- 
tably. ‘ 4 I foresee how it will be, but must submit and en- 
dure as best I can, I suppose.” 

Belle’s anticipation proved correct, for just as they were 
nearly ready to start for the chapel Roger appeared, and was 
a little awkward from diffidence and doubt as to his recep- 
tion. Mrs. Jocelyn’s kindness and Belle’s warm greeting 
somewhat reassured him, and atoned for Mildred’s rather 
constrained politeness. While answering the many and nat- 
ural questions about those whom he had left in Forestville, 
he regained his self-possession and was able to hold his own 
against Belle’s sallies. “You have come to the city to 
stay?” she asked point-blank. 

“Yes,” he said briefly, and that was the only reference 
he made to himself. 

She soon began vivaciously, “ You must go with us to 
church and Sunday-school. Here you are, an innocent and 
unprotected youth in this great wicked city, and we must get 
you under good influences at once. 

“ That is my wish,” he replied, looking her laughingly in 
the face, 4 4 and that is why I came to see you. If you have 
a class and will take me into it, I will accept all the theology 
you teach me.” 

44 Mr. Wentworth’s hair would rise at the idea of my teach- 
ing theology or anything ; but I’ 11 look after you, and if you 
get any fast ways I’ll make you sorry. No, I’m only a 
scholar. Millie has a class of the worst boys in school, and 
if — ’ ’ A warning glance here checked her. 

“ Well, then, can’t I join your class ?” 

“ Oh, no, we are all girls, and you’ll make us so bashful 
we wouldn’t dare say anything.” 

“ I think Mr. Atwood had better go with us to the chapel, 
accepting the conditions on which we first attended,” sug- 


ROGER REA REEARS. 257 

gested Mrs. Jocelyn. “ If he is pleased, as we were, he can 
then act accordingly. 

“ Yes, come," cried Belle, who had resumed at once her 
old companionable and mirthful relations with Roger. “ I’ll 
go with you, so you won't ieel strange or afraid. I want you 
to understand," she continued, as they passed down the 
quaint old hallway, “ that we belong to the aristocracy. 
Since this is the oldest house in town, we surely should be 
fegarded as one of the old families." 

‘ ‘ By what magic were you able to make so inviting a 
home in such a place ?" he asked. 

“ Oh, that’s Millie’s work," she replied. 

“ I might have known that," he said, and a sudden 
shadow crossed his face. Quickly as it passed away, she saw it. 

“ Yes," she resumed in a low, earnest tone — for she had 
no scruple in fanning the flame of his love which she more 
than half believed might yet be rewarded — “ Millie is one of 
a million. She will be our main dependence, I fear. She 
is so strong and sensible. ’ ’ 

“ Is — is not Mr. Jocelyn well ?" he asked apprehensively. 

‘ ‘ I fear he isn’ t well at all, ’ ' she answered with some de- 
spondency. “ He is sleeping now ; he always rests Sunday 
afternoon, and we try to let him rest all he can. He sleeps, 
or rather dozes, a great deal, and seems losing his strength 
and energy," and she spoke quite frankly concerning their 
plans, projects, and hopes. She believed in Roger, and knew 
him to be a sincere friend, and it was her nature to be very 
outspoken where she had confidence. “ If Millie can learn 
thoroughly what she is now studying, ’ ’ she concluded, ‘ ‘ I 
think we can get along. ’ ’ 

“ Yes," said Roger, in low, sad emphasis, “ your sister is 
Indeed one of a million, and my chance of winning one 
friendly thought from her also seems but one in a million. 
Belle, let us understand each other from the start. I have 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


* 5 * 

come to the city to stay, and I intend to succeed. I have an 
uncle in town who has given me a chance, and he’ 11 do more 
for me, I think. He’s peculiar, but he’s shrewd and sensi- 
ble, and when he is convinced that I intend to carry out cer- 
tain plans he will aid me. He is watching me now, and 
thinks I am here only from a restless impulse to see the 
world ; by and by he will know better. He has the obsti- 
nate Atwood blood, and if he takes a notion to give me a 
chance to get a first-class education, he will see me through. 
I’m going to have one anyway, but of course I’d rather be 
able to get it in five or six years than in eight or ten years, as 
would be the case if I had to work my own way. I am now 
employed in his commission store down town, but I am 
studying every spare moment I can get, and he knows it, 
only he thinks it won’t last. But it will, and I shall at least 
try to be one of the first lawyers in this city. What’s more, 
I shall work as few young men are willing to work or can 
work, for I am strong, and — well, I have motives for work 
that are not usual, perhaps. You see I am frank with you 
as you have been with me. You often talk like a gay child, 
but I understand you well enough to know that you are a 
whole-souled little woman, and thoroughly worthy of trust ; 
and I have told you more about myself and present plans 
than any one else. Clara Bute informed me all about your 
courage at the store, and I felt proud that I knew you, and 
don’t intend that you shall ever be ashamed of me. You 
may tell your mother all this if you please, because I wish her 
to know just what kind of a young fellow I am, and what are 
my connections and prospects. I would much like to come 
and see you and go out with you now and then ; and if you 
and your — well, your family should ever need any service 
that it was in my power to render, I should like you all to 
feel that I am not altogether unfit to give it, or to be youf 
associate. ’ ' 


ROGER REAPPEARS. 259 

“You needn’t talk that way,” said Belle ; “ you are up in 
the world compared with us. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I mean every word I say. I respect your mother as I 
do my own, for I have seen her beautiful life and beautiful 
face for weeks and months. I never expect to see a more 
perfect and genuine lady. I am not well versed in society’s 
ways, but I assure you I would make every effort in my power 
to act as she would think a young man ought to act. I’d 
rather fight a dragon than displease her. ’ ’ 

Tears of gratified feeling were in Belle’s eyes, but she said 
brusquely, “ Not versed in society’s ways ! Account, then, 
for that fashionable suit of clothes you are wearing.” 

“ They were not cut in Forestville,” he replied dryly. 
“Roger,” she said impulsively, “ I’m wonderfully glad 
you’ve come to New York to live, for I was dying for a little 
society and fun that mother and Millie wouldn't disapprove 
of. They are so particular, you know, that I fairly ache 
from trying to walk in the strait and narrow path which is 
so easy for them. I want a lark. I must have a lark before 
long, or I'll explode. What can we do that will be real 
genuine fun. It will do you good, too, or you’ll become a 
dull boy with nothing but work, work, work. You needn’t 
tell me the world was only made to work in If it was, I’ve 
no business here. You must think up something spicy, and 
no make believe 1 want to go somewhere where I can laugh 
with my whole heart. I can’t go on much longer at this 
old humdrum, monotonous jog, any more than your colts 
up at the farm could go around like the plough-horses, and I 
know it isn’t right to expect it of me. And yet what has 
Deen the case ? Off early in the morning to work, standing 
all day till I’m lame in body and mad in spirit — stupid 
owls to make us stand till we are so out of sorts that we are 
ready to bite customers’ heads off instead of waiting on ’em 
pleasantly. When I come home, mamma often looks tired 


200 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and sad, for this life is wearing on her, and she is worrying 
in secret over papa’ s health. Millie, too, is tired and down- 
hearted in spite of her trying to hide it. She won’ t go out 
anywhere because she says there are no places where young 
girls can go unattended that are within our means. I’ve 
got tired of the other shop-girls. A few of them are nice ; 
but more of them are stupid or coarse, so I just sit around 
and mope, and go to bed early to get through the time. If I 
even try to romp with the children a little, mamma looks 
distressed, fearing I will disturb papa, who of late, when he 
comes out of his dozing condition, is strangely irritable. A 
year ago he’d romp and talk nonsense with me to my heart’s 
content ; but that’s all passed. Now is it natural for a 
young girl little more than sixteen to live such a life?” 

“ No, Belle, it is not, and yet I have seen enough of the 
city during the week I have been here to know that your 
mother and sister are right in their restrictions. ’ ’ 

“ Well, then, it’s a burning shame that in a city called 
Christian a poor girl is not more safe outside of her own 
door than if she were in a jungle. Do you mean to say that 
girls, situated as Millie and I are, must remain cooped 
up in little rooms the year round when our work is 
over ?’ ’ 

“ The street is no place for you to take recreation in after 
nightfall ; and where else you can gc unattended I’m sure I 
don’t know. If there is any place, I’ll find out, for I intend 
to study this city from top to bottom. A lawyer is bound to 
know life as it is, above all things. But you needn’t worry 
about this question in the abstract any more. I’ll see that 
you have a good time occasionally. Your sister will not go 
with me, at least not yet — perhaps never — but that is not my 
fault. I’ve only one favor to ask of you, Belle, and I’ll do 
many in return. Please never, by word, or even by look, 
make my presence offensive or obtrusive to Miss Mildred 


ROGER REAPPEARS. 


261 

If you will be careful I will not prove so great an affliction 
as she fears. ’ ’ 

“ Roger Atwood, do you read people’s thoughts?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, I only see what is to be seen, and draw my com 
elusions,” he said, a little sadly. 

“ Well, then, if you can have the tact and delicacy to fol- 
low such good eyesight, you may fare better than you ex- 
pect,” she whispered at the chapel door. 

He turned toward her with a quick flash, but she had 
stepped forward into the crowd passing through the vestibule. 
From that moment, however, a ray of hope entered his 
heart, and in quiet resolve he decided to conform his tactics 
to the hint just received. 

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred followed half a block away, and 
the former said to her daughter : “ There they go, Millie, 
chattering together like two children. You surely take this 
affair too seriously. His sudden and boyish infatuation with 
you was the most natural thing in the world. He had neve* 
seen a girl like you before, and you awoke him into some- 
thing like manhood. Very young men are prone to fall in 
love with women older than themselves, or those who seem 
older, and speedily to fall out again. Martin has often said 
his first flame is now a gray-headed lady, and yet he was sure 
at one time he never could endure life without her. You 
know that I consoled him quite successfully,” and Mildred 
was pleased to hear the old, sweet laugh that was becoming 
too rare of late. Even now it ended in a sigh. Mr. Joce- 
lyn was losing his resemblance to the man she had accepted 
in those bright days that now seemed so long ago. 

‘ ‘ I hope you are right, mamma. It seems as if I ought 
to laugh at the whole affair and good-naturedly show him 
his folly, but for some reason I can’t. He affects me very 
strangely. While I feel a strong repulsion, I am beginning 
to fear him — to become conscious of his intensity and th* 


262 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


tenacity and power of his will. I didn’t understand him at 
first, and I don’t now, but if he were an ordinary, impulsive 
young fellow he would not impress me as he does. 

“ Don't you think him true and good at heart?" 

“ I’ve no reason to think him otherwise. I can’t explain 
to you how I feel, nor do I understand it myself. He seems 
the embodiment of a certain kind of force, and I always 
shrank from mere force, whether in nature or people. 

“ I can tell you how it is, Millie. Quiet and gentle as 
you seem, you have a tremendous will of your own, and very 
strong-willed people don’ t get on well together. 

“ Astute little mother ! Well, explain it in any way tha: 
pleases you, only keep your promise not to let him become 
the bane of my life.” 

“I’m not at all sure but that Belle will soon usurp your 
place in his regard, nor would I object, for I am very anxious 
about the child. I know that her present life seems dull to 
her, and the temptations of the city to a girl with a nature 
like hers are legion. He can be a very useful friend to her, 
and he seems to me manly and trustworthy. I’ m not often 
deceived in my impressions of people, and he inspires me 
with confidence, and has from the first. I never saw any- 
thing underhand in him at the farm. 

“ Oh, no, he’s honest enough, no doubt.” 

“There, Millie,” resumed her mother, laughing, “you 
have a woman’ s reason for your feelings — you don’ t like him, 
and that is the end of it. You must admit, however, that 
he has improved wonderfully. I never saw a young fellow so 
changed, so thoroughly waked up. He has sense, too, in 
little things. One would think from his dress he had been 
bom and bred in the city. They didn’t palm off an old- 
fashioned suit on him, if he was from the country.- 

“ Chant his praises to Belle, mamma, and she will greatly 
appreciate this last proof of his superiority. To me he 


ROGER REAPPEARS. 


163 

seems like his clothes — a little too new. Still 1 admit that 
he can be of very great service to Belle ; and if he will re- 
strict his attentions to her I will be as polite as either of you 
can wish. I, too, feel a very deep sympathy for Belle. She 
is little more than a child, and yet her life is imposing upon 
her the monotonous work of a middle-aged woman, and I 
fear the consequences. It’s contrary to nature, and no one 
Knows it better than she. If he will help us take care of her 
I shall be grateful indeed ; but if he grows sentimental and 
follows me as he did this morning, I could not endure it — 
indeed I could not." 

“Well, Millie dear, we won’t, cross any bridges till wc 
come to them." 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


t6 4 . 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 
URING the sermon it must be admitted that Belle’s 



thoughts wandered from the text and its able de- 
velopment by Mr. Wentworth. In fact, she was developing 
a little scheme of her own, and, as the result, whispered at 
the close of service, * ‘ Mamma, Roger and I are going to 
take a walk in the Park. Can’ 1 1 ask him home to supper ? 
This is his first Sunday in town, and it will be so dismal — ' ' 

“Yes, child, go and have a good time.” 

Within the next five minutes radiant Belle was an uncon- 
scious embodiment of foreordination to Roger. He had had 
no idea of going to the Park, but Belle had decreed he should 
go, and as he smilingly accompanied her he certainly re- 
mained a very contented free agent. 

It was a clear, bracing afternoon and evening, wherein were 
blended the characteristics of both autumn and winter, and 
the young people returned with glowing cheeks and quick- 
ened pulses. 

*'* Oh, Millie !” cried Belle, “ such a walk as I have had 
would make you over new. I felt as if I were a hundred 
this morning, but now I feel just about sixteen — that was 
my last birthday, wasn’t it, mamma ?” 

Both mother and sister smiled to see her sparkling eyes 
and bubbling happiness ; and the latter thought, “ For her 
sake I must certainly either master or conceal my dislike for 
that young fellow.” 


THE DARK SHADOW OE COMING EVENTS. 265 

Indeed, she herself appeared sadly in need of a little vigor- 
ous exercise in the frosty air. The events of the day had 
been exceedingly depressing ; despondency had taken the 
place of the irritation and the hopes and fears that had alter- 
nated in the morning hours ; but she unselfishly tried to 
disguise it, and to aid her mother in preparing an inviting 
supper for Belle and her guest. 

Mildred was obliged to admit to herself that Roger had 
very little of the appearance and manner of an uncouth coun- 
tryman. There was a subtle, half-conscious homage for her 
mother in his every look and word, and for herself a polite- 
ness almost as distant and unobtrusive as her own. Once, 
when a sigh escaped her as she was busy about the room, 
she looked apprehensively at him, and, as she feared, en- 
countered a glance from which nothing could escape. She 
now felt that her assumed cheerfulness deceived him so little 
that, were it not for Belle, she would wholly forego the effort, 
and end the long, miserable day in her own room. 

Suddenly the thought occurred to her : “ I will learn from 
his microscopic eyes how papa appears to others not blinded 
by love as we are ; for, in spite of all my efforts to look on 
the bright side, I am exceedingly ill at ease about him. I 
fear he is failing faster than we think — we who see him daily. 
Mr. Atwood has not seen him for months, and the least 
change would be apparent to him.” 

Immunity from business induced Mr. Jocelyn to gratify 
his cravings more unstintedly on Sunday ; and as he was 
often exceedingly irritable if disturbed when sleeping off the 
effects of an extra indulgence, they usually left him to wake 
of his own accord. Unfortunately the walls of his apartment 
were but curtains, and his loud breathings made it necessary 
to rouse him. This Mrs. Jocelyn accomplished with some 
difficulty, but did not mention the presence of Roger, fearing 
that in his half-wakened condition he might make some 


266 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


remark which would hurt the young man’s feelings. She 
merely assisted him to arrange his disordered hair and dress, 
and then led the way to the supper-table, he in the mean 
time protesting petulantly that he wished no supper, but 
would rather have slept. 

As he emerged from the curtained doorway, Mildred’s 
eyes were fastened on Roger’s face, determined that nothing 
in its expression should escape her. He at the moment was 
in the midst of a laughing reply to one of Belle’s funny 
speeches, but he stopped instantly and turned pale as his 
eyes rested on the visage of her father. Had that face then 
changed so greatly ? Had disease made such havoc that this 
comparative stranger was aghast and could not conceal the 
truth that he was shocked ? 

It was with sharp anguish that these queries flashed through 
Mildred’s mind, and, with her own perceptions sharpened 
and quickened, she saw that her father had indeed changed 
very greatly ; he had grown much thinner ; his complexion 
had an unnatural, livid aspect ; his old serene, frank look 
was absent, and a noticeable contraction in the pupils of his 
eyes gave an odd, sinister aspect to his expression. 

There were other changes that were even more painful to 
witness. In former days he had been the embodiment of 
genial Southern hospitality ; but now, although he made a 
visible effort for self-control, his whole body seemed one dis- 
eased irritable nerve. 

Roger almost instantly overcame his pained surprise, yet 
not so quickly but that it was observed by all, and even by 
him who had been the cause. “ I am very sorry to learn 
you are not in good health, ’ ’ he was indiscreet enough to 
say as he offered his hand in greeting. 

“ From whom have you learned this?” demanded Mr. 
Jocelyn, looking angrily and suspiciously around. “ I 
assure you that you are mistaken. I never was in better 


THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 267 

health, and I am not pleased that any one should gossip 
about me. ’ ’ 

They sat down under a miserable constraint — Belle flushed 
and indignant, Mildred no longer disguising her sadness, and 
poor Mrs. Jocelyn with moist eyes making a pitiful attempt to 
restore serenity so that Belle’s happy day might not become 
clouded. Roger tried to break the evil spell by giving his 
impressions of the Park to Mrs. Jocelyn, but was interrupted 
by her husband, who had been watching the young man with 
a perplexed, suspicious look, vainly trying to recall the name 
of one whose face was familiar enough, remarking at last 
very satirically, “ Has it ceased to be the style to introduce 
people, especially at one’ s own table ? I might appreciate 
this gentleman’s conversation better if I knew his name.” 

They all looked at each other in sudden dismay, for they 
could not know that opium impairs memory as well as health 
and manhood. ‘ ‘ Martin, ’ ’ cried his wife, in a tone of sharp 
distress, “You are ill, indeed. There is no use in trying to 
disguise the truth any longer. What ! don’t you remember 
Roger Atwood, the son of the kind friends with whom we 
spent the summer ?’ ’ and in spite of all effort tears blinded 
her eyes. 

The wretched man’s instinct of self-preservation was 
aroused. He saw from the looks of all about him that he was 
betraying himself — that he was wholly off his balance. 
While vividly and painfully aware of his danger, his enfeebled 
will and opium-clouded mind were impotent to steady and 
sustain him or to direct his course. He had much of the 
terror and all the sense of helplessness of a man who finds 
himself in deep water and cannot swim. He trembled, the 
perspiration started out on his brow, and his one impulse now 
was to be alone with his terrible master, that had become the 
sole source of his semblance of strength as well as of his real 
and fatal weakness. “ I — I fear I am ill." he faltered. 


268 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“I’ll go out and get a little air,’’ and he was about to leave 
the room almost precipitately. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Martin, ’ ’ expostulated his wife, 4 4 don’ t go out — at 
least not alone. ’ ’ 

Again he lost control of himself, and said savagely, “ I 
will. Don’t any one dare to follow me,’’ and he almost 
rushed away. 

For a moment Mrs. Jocelyn tried to bear up from instinc- 
tive politeness, but her lip quivered like that of a child ; then 
the tide of her feeling swept her away, and she fled to the 
adjoining apartment. Mildred followed her at once, and 
.Belle, with a white, scared face, looked into Roger’s eyes. 
He rose and came directly to her and said, 4 4 Belle, you 
know you can always count on me. Your father is so ill 
that I think I had better follow him. I can do so un- 
observed. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, Roger — why — is — is papa losing his mind ?” 

His quick eye now noted that Fred and Minnie had be- 
come so impressed that something dreadful had happened 
that they were about to make the occasion more painful by 
their outcries, and he turned smilingly to them, and with a 
few reassuring words and promises soon quieted their fears. 
“ Be a brave little woman, Belle,’’ he at last said to her. 

4 4 There is my address, and please promise to let me know 
if I can do anything for you and for — for Mrs. Jocelyn.” 

“Don’t go — please don’t go yet,” Belle pleaded. 
“ Papa’s looks and words to-night fill me with a strange 
fear as if something awful might happen. 

“ Perhaps if I follow your father I may prevent — ” 

“ Oh, yes, go at once.” 

He was intercepted at the door by the entrance of Mr. 
Jocelyn, who had had ample time in the few brief minutes 
that had elapsed to fill his system with the subtle stimulant. 
He now took Roger by the hand most cordially, and said, 


THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS . 269 

‘ Pardon me, Mr. Atwood. My health has become some- 
what impaired of late, and I fear I have just had a rather bad 
turn ; but the air has revived me, and the trouble now has 
passed. I insist that you stay and spend the evening with us. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, papa, ’ ’ cried Belle, rushing into his arms, * ‘ how 
you frightened us ! Please go into my room, there, and 
comfort mamma by telling her you are all well again.” 

This he did so effectively that he soon led her out smiling 
through her tears, for her confidence in him was the growth 
and habit of years, and anything he said to her seemed for 
the moment true. And, indeed, the man was so changed 
that it was hard to realize he was not well. His face, in 
contrast with its aspect a few moments since, appeared to 
have regained its natural hue and expression ; every trace of 
irritability had passed away, and with his old-time, easy 
courtesy and seeming frankness he talked so plausibly of it 
all that Belle and his wife, and even Roger, felt that they 
had attached undue importance to a mere temporary indispo- 
sition. 

Mildred made great effort to be cheerful for her father’s 
sake, but the pallor did not pass from her face, nor the look 
of deep anxiety from her eyes. The shadow of coming trou- 
ble had fallen too heavily upon her, and that the marked ex- 
hibition of her father’s failing powers should have occurred 
at this time added to the impression that Roger Atwood was 
their evil genius. She recalled the fact that he seemingly 
had been the first exciting cause of her father’s unnatural 
behavior, and now his reappearance was the occasion of the 
most convincing proof they had yet received that the one 
upon whom they all depended was apparently failing in both 
mind and body. Even now, while he was doing his best to 
reassure and render happy his family, there was to her per- 
ception an unreality in his words and manner. She almost 
imagined, too, that he feared to meet her eye and shunned 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


270 

doing so. Not in the remotest degree, however, did she sus- 
pect the cause of his suddenly varying moods and changen 
appearance, but regarded all as the result of his misfortunes ; 
and the. miserable presentiment grew strong upon her that 
soon — alas ! too soon — she would be the slender reed on 
which they all would lean. If she could have six months, 
only, of careful preparation she would not so dread the bur- 
den ; but if now, or soon, the whole responsibility of the 
family’s support should come upon her and Belle, what 
would they do ? Her heart sank, and her very soul cowered 
at the prospect. She could not live in the present hour like 
Belle, but with too keen a foresight realized how dark and 
threatening was the future. 

The night was clear and beautiful, and Roger and Belle 
went up to the platform built over the roof. Not long after- 
ward there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Ulph appeared. 
“ Der night vas goot,” he said to Mildred, “ und I vill gif 
you von leedle glimpse off hefen if you vould like him.” 

The poor girl felt that she certainly needed a glimpse of 
something bright and reassuring, and wrapping herself warmly 
she followed her quaint friend to the roof. 

Roger grew taciturn as he watched the dim outline of her 
form and her white, upturned face. She seemed as cold and 
distant to him as the stars at which she gazed, and he thought 
dejectedly, ‘ ‘ The least of them have an interest for her 
greater than I shall ever be able to inspire. ’ ’ 

He overrated her interest in the stars on that occasion, 
however, for though she did her best to follow the old 
astronomer’s words, her heart was too sorrowful and preoccu- 
pied, and her eyes too often blinded by tears, which once glit- 
tered so distinctly in the rays of a brilliant planet that her 
companion stopped in the midst of a sentence and looked at 
her keenly. 

“ You vas not habby, my leedle schild,” he said kindly. 
w Dere's someding droubling you heart ; put you gan no see 


THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS, 27 1 


vay inter der hefens drew dears do’ dey vas glear as der lens 
off my glass. ' ’ 

* 4 I fear I shall have to see through tears very often, if I see at 
all, Mildred replied, with a low, suppressed sob. 44 Forgive 
me to-night. I do feel grateful that you are willing to show me 
— but — I — I — well, I am troubled to-night about something, 
and I can’t control myself. To-morrow night I’ll be braver, and 
will help you. Please don’t feel hurt if I leave you now.” 

4 4 Ah, mine leedle girl, learn vrom der schtars dot der 
great laws moost be opeyed, und don’ t you vorry und vret 
ober vat you gannot help. Shust you go along quiet und 
easy like Shupiter oup dere. Lots off dings vill dry to bull 
dis vay and dot vay outen der right orpit, put dond you 
mind ’em, und shust go right schtrait along und not care. 
You veels too mooch apout oder beoples. Der schtars deach 
you petter ; dey goes right on der own vay und about der 
own pisness, unless dey vas voolish leedle schtars, like dot 
von dere dots shust gone to der duyvel vrom ianin outen his 
vay toward der earth. 

She might have reminded him that, if she had acted upon 
this cold and selfish philosophy, his little child would now be 
sleeping in a distant cemetery instead of in his warm crib, 
but she only said, 44 Good-night, Mr. Ulph ; I’ll do better 
next time,” and she hurried away. She felt that the sun and 
centre of their family life was passing under a strange and 
lasting eclipse, and the result might be darkness — chaos. 

She wiped her eyes carefully, that no traces of grief might 
appear, and then entered their room. Her mother was 
putting the children to bed, and her father looking dreamily 
out of the window. She kissed him, and said briefly, 44 I’m 
tired and think I will retire early so as to be ready for my 
work.” He made no effort to detain her. She clasped hei 
mother in a momentary passionate embrace, and then shut 
herself up to a night of almost sleepless grief. 


WITHOUT A HOME. v 


* 7 « 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD. 

B OTH Belle and Roger saw that Mildred had not beea 
reassured by Mr. Jocelyn’s return and manner ; and 
as ihey thought it ovei they found it difficult to account for 
his strangely varying moods. After a rather lame effort to 
chat cheerily, Roger bade Belle good-night, and assured her 
that she now had a friend always within call. 

His uncle’s modest residence was in a side street and not 
far away, but the young fellow walked for hours before ap- 
plying his night-key to the door. What he had seen and 
heard that day touched his heart’s core, and the influences 
that were so rapidly developing his manhood were greatly 
strengthened. For Belle he now had a genuine liking and 
not a little respect. He saw her foibles clearly, and under- 
stood that she was still more a child than a woman, and so 
should not be judged by the standards proper for those of 
mature age ; but he also saw the foundations on which a 
noble womanhood might be built. She inspired a sense of 
comradeship and honest friendliness which would easily 
deepen into fraternal love, but Mrs. Jocelyn’s surmise that 
she might some day touch that innermost spring which con- 
trols the entire man had no true basis. Nor would there 
have been any possibility of this had he never seen Mildred. 
A true man — one governed by heart and mind, not passion 
— meets many women whom he likes and admires exceed- 
ingly, but who can never quicken his pulse. On Mildred, 


WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD . 


273 


however — although she coveted the gift so little — was be- 
stowed the power to touch the most hidden and powerful 
principles of his being, to awaken and stimulate every faculty 
he possessed. Her words echoed and re-echoed in the re- 
cesses of his soul ; even her cold, distant glances were like 
rays of a tropical sun to which his heart could offer no re- 
sistance ; and yet they were by no means enervating. Some 
natures would have grown despondent over prospects seem- 
ingly so hopeless, but Roger was of a different type. His 
deep and unaccepted feeling did not flow back upon his 
spirit, quenching it in dejection and despair, but it became 
a resistless tide back of his purpose to win her recognition 
and respect at least, and his determination to prove himself 
her peer. A girl so beautiful and womanly might easily gain 
such power over several men without any conscious effort, 
remaining meanwhile wholly indifferent or even averse her- 
self, and Roger had indeed but little cause for hope. He 
might realize every ambitious dream and win her respect and 
admiration, and her heart continue as unresponsive as it had 
been from the first. Many a man has loved and waited in 
vaiji ; and some out of this long adversity in that which 
touched their dearest interests have built the grandest suc- 
cesses of life and the loftiest and purest manhood. 

A few months before, Roger seemingly had been a good- 
natured, pleasure-loving country youth, who took life as it 
came, with little thought for the morrow. Events had proved 
that he had latent and undeveloped force. In the material 
world we find substances that apparently are inert and power- 
less, but let some other substance be brought sufficiently near, 
and an energy is developed that seems like magic, and trans- 
formations take place that were regarded as supernatural in 
times when nature’s laws were little understood. If this be 
true concerning that which is gross and material, how much 
more true of the quick, informing spirit that can send out its 


*74 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


thoughts to the farthest star ! Strong souls — once wholly 
unconscious of their power — at the touch of adequate motives 
pass into action and combinations which change the charac- 
ter of the world from age to age. 

But in the spiritual as in the physical world, this develop- 
ment takes place in accordance with natural law and within 
the limitations of each character. There is nothing strange, 
however strange it may appear to those who do not under- 
stand. Roger Atwood was not a genius that would speedily 
dazzle the world with bewildering coruscations. It would 
rather be his tendency to grow silent and reserved with years, 
but his old boyish alertness would not decline, or his habit of 
shrewd, accurate observation. He thus would take few false 
steps, and would prove his force by deeds. Therefore he was 
almost predestined to succeed, for his unusually strong will 
would not drive him into useless effort or against obstacles 
that could be foreseen and avoided. 

After Mildred’s departure from the country he carried out 
his plans in a characteristic way. He wrote frankly and de- 
cidedly to his uncle that he was coming to the city, and 
would struggle on alone if he received no aid. At the same 
time he suggested that he had a large acquaintance in his 
vicinity, and therefore by judicious canvassing among the 
farmers he believed he could bring much patronage with him. 
This looked not unreasonable to the shrewd commission 
merchant, and, since his nephew was determined to make 
an excursion into the world, he concluded it had bet- 
ter be done under the safest and most business-like circum- 
stances. At the same time recalling the character and 
habits of the country boy, as he remembered him, he sur- 
mised that Roger would soon become homesick and glad to 
go back to his old life. If retained under his eye, the youth 
could be kept out of harm’s way and returned untainted and 
content to be a farmer. He therefore wrote to Roger that, 


WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD. 275 

if hii, parents were willing, he might secure what trade he 
could in farm produce and make the trial. 

At first Mr. and Mrs. Atwood would not hear of the plan, 
and the father openly declared that it was “ those Jocelyn 
girls that had unsettled the boy.” 

'* Father,” said Roger, a little defiantly and sarcastically, 
** doesn’t it strike you that I’m rather tall for a boy ? Did 
you never hear of a small child, almost of age, choosing his 
own course in life ?” 

That is not the way to talk, ’ ' said his mother reprov- 
ingly. “We both very naturally feel that it’s hard, and 
hardly right, too, for you to leave us just as we are getting 
old and need some one to lean on.” 

“ Do not believe, mother, that I have not thought of 
that, ’ ’ was the eager reply ; ‘ 4 and if I have my way you and 
father, and Susan too, shall be well provided for.” 

“ Thank you,” Mr. Atwood snarled contemptuously. 
“ I’ll get what I can out of the old farm, and I don’t expect 
any provision from an overgrown boy whose head is so turned 
by two city girls that he must go dangling after them.” 

Roger flushed hotly, and angry words rose to his lips, but 
he restrained them by a visible effort. After a moment he 
said quietly, “You are my father, and may say what you 
please. There is but one way of convincing you whether I 
am a boy or a man, and I’ll take it. You can keep me here 
till I’m twenty-one if you will, but you’ll be sorry. It will 
be so much loss to me and no gain to you. I’ve often heard 
you say the Atwoods never 4 drove well/ and you found out 
years ago that a good word went further with me than what you 
used to call a 4 good thrashing. ’ If you let me have my way, 
now that I’m old enough to choose for myself, I’ll make your 
old age cozy and comfortable. If you thwart me, as I said be- 
fore, you’ 11 be sorry, ’ ’ and he turned on his heel and left them. 

Politic Mrs. Atwood had watched her son closely for weeks 


276 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and knew that something was coming, but with woman's 
patience she waited and was kind. No one would miss him 
so much as she, and yet, mother-like, she now took sides 
against her own heart. But she saw that her husband was in 
no mood to listen to her at present, and nothing more was 
said that day. 

In the evening Roger drove out in his carriage and re- 
turned on horseback. 

“There’s the money you paid for the buggy, with in- 
terest,” he said to his father. 

“ You aren’t gone yet,” was the growling answer. 

“ No matter. I shall not ride in it again, and you are not 
the loser. ’ ’ 

Roger had a rugged side to his nature which his father’s 
course often called out, and Mrs. Atwood made her husband 
feel, reluctant as he was to admit it, that he was taking the 
wrong course with his son. A letter also from his brother in 
town led him to believe that Roger would probably come 
back in the spring well content to remain at home ; so at last 
he gave a grudging consent. 

Ungracious as it was, the young man rewarded him by a 
vigorous, thorough completion of the fall work, by painting 
the house and putting the place in better order than it bad 
ever known before ; meanwhile for his mother and sister he 
showed a consideration and gentleness which proved that he 
was much changed from his old self. 

‘ ‘ I can see the hand of Mildred Jocelyn in everything he 
says and does, ’ ’ Susan remarked one day alter a long fit of 
musing, “ and yet I don’t believe sne cares a straw for him.” 
Her intuition was correct ; it was Roger’s ambition to be- 
come such a man as Mildred must respect in spite of herself, 
and it was also true that she was not merely indifferent, but 
for the reasons already given- — as far as she had reasons — she 
positively disliked him. 


WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD. 277 

Roger brought sufficient business from the country to pre- 
vent regretful second thoughts in the mind of his thrifty un- 
cle, and the impression was made that the young fellow 
might steady down into a useful clerk ; but when as much 
was hinted Roger frankly told him that he regarded business 
as a stepping-stone merely to the study of the law. The old 
merchant eyed him askance, but made no response. Occa- 
sionally the veteran of the market evinced a glimmer of en* 
thusiasm over a prime article of butter, but anything so in- 
tangible as a young man’s ambitious dreams was looked 
upon with a very cynical eye. Still he could not be a part 
of New York life and remain wholly sceptical in regard to 
the possibilities it offered to a young fellow of talent and 
large capacity for work. He was a childless man, and if 
Roger had it in him to ‘ ‘ climb the ladder, ” as he expressed 
it to himself, 4 4 it might pay to give him the chance. ’ ’ But 
the power to climb would have to be proved almost to a 
demonstration. In the mean time Roger, well watched and 
much mistrusted, was but a clerk in his store near Washing- 
ton Market, and a student during all spare hours. 

He had too much sense to attempt superficial work or to 
seek to build his fortunes on the slight foundation of mere 
smartness. It was his plan to continue in business for a year 
or more and then enter the junior class of one of the city col- 
leges. By making the most of every moment and with the 
aid t)f a little private tutoring he believed he could do this, 
for he was a natural mathematician, and would find in the 
classics his chief difficulties. At any rate it was his fixed re- 
solve not to enter upon the study of the law proper until he 
had broadened his mind by considerable general culture. 
Not only did his ambition prompt to this, but he felt that if 
he developed narrowly none would be so clearly aware of the 
fact as Mildred Jocelyn. Although not a highly educated 
girl herself, he knew she had a welbbred woman’s nice per* 


278 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


ception of what constituted a cultivated man ; he also knew 
that he had much prejudice to overcome, and that he must 
strike at its very root 

In the mean time poor Mildred, unconscious of all save 
his unwelcome regard, was seeking with almost desperate 
earnestness to gain practical knowledge of two humble arts, 
hoping to be prepared for the time — now clearly foreseen and 
dreaded — when her father might decline so far in mind and 
health as to fail them utterly, and even become a heavy bur- 
den. She did not dream that his disease was a drug, and 
although some of his associates began to suspect as much, in 
spite of all his precautions, none felt called upon to suggest 
their suspicions to his family. 

Causes that work steadily will sooner or later reach their 
legitimate results. The opium inertia grew inevitably upon 
Mr. Jocelyn. He disappointed the expectations of his em- 
ployers to that degree that they felt that something was 
wrong, and his appearance and manner often puzzled them 
not a little, even though with all the cunning which the habit 
engenders he sought to hide his weakness. 

One day, late in November, an unexpected incident 
brought matters to a crisis. An experienced medical 
acquaintance, while making a call upon the firm, caught 
sight of Mr. Jocelyn, and his practised eye detected the 
trouble at once. 

“ That man is an opium-eater/’ he said in a low tone, 
and his explanation of the effects of the drug was a diagnosis 
of Mr. Jocelyn’s symptoms and appearance. The firm’s 
sympathy for a man seemingly in poor health was transformed 
into disgust and antipathy, since there is less popular toleration 
of this weakness than of drinking habits. The very obscurity 
in which the vice is involved makes it seem all the more 
unnatural and repulsive, and it must be admitted that the 
fullest knowledge tends only to increase this horror and re- 


WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD. 279 

pugnance, even though pity is awakened for the wretched 
victim. 

But Mr. Jocelyn’s employers had little knowledge of the 
vice, and they were not in the least inclined to pity. They 
felt that they had been imposed upon, and that too at a time 
when all business men were very restless under useless ex- 
penditure. It was the man’s fault and not misfortune that 
he had failed so signally in securing trade from the South, 
and, while they had paid him but a small salary, his ill-directed 
and wavering efforts had involved them in considerable ex- 
pense. Asking the physician to remain, they summoned 
Mr. Jocelyn to the private office, and directly charged him 
with the excessive and habitual use of opium. 

The poor man was at first greatly confused, and trembled 
as if in an ague fit, for his nerve power was already so shat- 
tered that he had little self-control in an emergency. This, 
of course, was confirmation of guilt in their eyes. 

“ Gentlemen, you do me a great wrong,” he managed to 
say, and hastily left the office. Having secreted himself from 
observation he snatched out his hypodermic syringe, and 
within six minutes felt himself equal to any crisis. Boldly 
returning to the office he denied the charge in the most ex- 
plicit terms, and with some show of lofty indignation. The 
physician who was still present watched him closely, and 
noticed that the cuff on his left hand was somewhat crum- 
pled, as if it had been recently pushed back. Without a 
word he seized Mr. Jocelyn’s arm and pulled back his coat 
and shirt sleeve, revealing a bright red puncture just made, 
and many others of a remoter date. 

“ There is no use in lying about such matters to me,” said 
the physician. “ How much morphia did you inject into 
your arm since you left us ?’ ’ 

“ I am a victim of neuralgia,” Mr. Jocelyn began, without 
any hesitation. “ and the cruel and unreasonable chaige here 


280 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


made against me brought on an acute paroxysm, and there- 
fore I — ” 

‘ ‘ Stop that nonsense, ’ ’ interrupted the doctor, roughly. 
“Don’t you know that lying, when lying is of no use, is 
one of the characteristic traits of an opium-eater ? I am a 
physician, and have seen too many cases to be deceived a 
moment. You have all the symptoms of a confirmed mor- 
phia consumer, and if you ever wish to break your chains 
you had better tell doctors the truth and put yourself under 
the charge of one in whom you have confidence. ’ ’ 

“ Well, curse you 1" said Mr. Jocelyn savagely, “ it was 
through one of your damnable fraternity that I acquired what 
you are pleased to call my chains, and now you come croak- 
ing to my employers, poisoning their minds against me.” 

“ Oh, as to poisoning,” remarked the physician sarcasti- 
cally, “ I’ll wager a thousand dollars that you have absorbed 
enough morphia within the last twenty-four hours to kill every 
one in this office. At the rate you are going on, as far as 1 cap 
judge from appearances, you wilt soon poison yourself out o* 
existence. No physician ever advised the destroying vice 
you are practising, and no physician would take offence at 
your words any more chan at the half-demented ravings of a 
fever patient. You are in a verv critical condition, sir, and 
unless you can wake ud to ttoi tiutn and nut forth more will 
power than most men possess you will soon go to the bad/' 

“ I sincerely hope you will take this experienced phy- 
sician’s advice,” said the senior member of the. firm very 
coldly. ‘ ‘ At any rate we can no longer permit you to 
jeopardize our interests by your folly and weakness. The 
cashier will settle with you, and our relations end here and 
now.” 

“ You will bitterly repent of this injustice,” Mr. Jocelyn 
replied haughtily. “You are discharging a man of un- 
usual business capacity — one whose acquaintance with the 


WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD. 


28. 


South is well nigh universal, and whose combinations were 
on the eve of securing enormous returns. ’ ’ 

“ We will forego all these advantages. Good-morning, 
sir. Did you ever see such effrontery ?” he continued, after 
Mr. Jocelyn had departed with a lofty and contemptuous air. 

“ It’s not effrontery — it’s opium,’ ’ said the physician 
sadly. “ You should see the abject misery of the poor 
wretch after the effects of the drug have subsided. ’ ’ 

“ I have no wish to see him again under any aspect, and 
heartily thank you for unmasking him. We must look at 
once into our affairs, and see how much mischief he has 
done. If he wants the aid and respect of decent men, let him 
give up his vile practice. ' ’ 

“ That’s easier said than done,” the physician replied. 
“ Very few ever give it up who have gone as far as this 

man.” 


282 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A SLAVE. 

HE physician was right. A more abject and pitiable 



A spectacle than Mr. Jocelyn could scarcely have been 
found among the miserable unfortunates of a city noted for 
its extremes in varied condition. Even in his false excite- 
ment he was dimly aware that he was facing a dreadful 
emergency, and, following an instinctive desire for solitude so 
characteristic of those in his condition, he took a room in an 
obscure hotel and gave himself up to thoughts that grew more 
and more painful as the unnatural dreams inspired by opium 
shaped themselves gradually into accord with the actualities 
of his life. 

For a month or two past he had been swept almost un- 
resistingly down the darkening and deepening current of his 
sin. Whenever he made some feeble, vacillating effort to re- 
duce his allowance of the drug, he became so wretched, 
irritable, and unnatural in manner that his family were full of 
perplexed wonder and solicitude. To hide his weakness 
from his wife was his supreme desire ; and yet, if he stopped 
— were this possible — the whole wretched truth would 
be revealed Each day he had been tormented with the 
feeling that something must be done, and yet nothing had 
been done. He had only sunk deeper and deeper, as with 
the resistless force of gravitation. 

His vague hope, his baseless dream that something would 
occur which would make reform easier or the future clearer, 


A SLAVE. 


283 


had now been dissipated utterly, and every moment with 
more terrible distinctness revealed to him the truth that he 
had lost his manhood. The vice was already stamped on 
his face and manner, so that an experienced eye could detect 
it at once ; soon all would see the degrading brand. He, 
who had once been the soul of honor and truth, had lied 
that day again and again, and the thought pierced him like 
a sword. 

And now, after his useless falsehoods, what should he do ? 
He was no longer unacquainted with his condition — few 
opium victims are, at his advanced stage of the habit — and 
he knew well how long and terrible would be the ordeal of a 
radical cure, even if he had the will-power to attempt it. He 
had, of late, taken pains to inform himself of the experience 
of others who had passed down the same dark, slippery path, 
and when he tried to diminish instead of increasing his doses 
of morphia, he had received fearful warnings of the awful 
chasm that intervened between himself and safety. 

A few opium consumers can go on for years in comparative 
tranquillity if they will avoid too great excess, and carefully 
increase their daily allowance so as not to exhibit too marked 
alternations of elation and depression. Now and then, per- 
sons of peculiar constitution can maintain the practice a long 
time without great physical or moral deterioration ; but no 
habitue can stop without sufferings prolonged and more pain- 
ful than can be described. Sooner or later, even those na- 
tures which offer the strongest resistance to the ravages of the 
poison succumb, and pass hopelessly to the same destruction. 
Mr. Jocelyn’s sanguine, impulsive temperament had little 
capacity for resistance to begin with, and he had during the 
last year used the drug freely and constantly, thus making 
downward advances in months that in some instances require 
years of moderate indulgence. Moreover, as with alcohol, 
many natures have an unusual and morbid craving for opium 


2$4 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


after once acquiring the habit of its use. Their appetite 
demands it with an imperiousness which will not be denied, 
even while in soul they recoil and loathe the bondage. This 
was especially true of Mr. Jocelyn. The vice in his case was 
wrecking a mind and heart naturally noble and abounding in 
the best impulses. He was conscious, too, of this demorali- 
zation, and suffered almost as greatly as would a true, pure 
woman, if, by some fatal necessity, she were compelled to 
live a life of crime. 

He had already begun to shrink from the companionship 
of his family. The play and voices of his little children 
jarred his shattered nerves almost beyond endurance ; and 
every look of love and act of trust became a stinging irritant 
instead of the grateful incense that had once filled his home 
with perfume. In bitter self-condemnation he saw that he 
was ceasing to be a protector to his daughters, and that un- 
less he could break the dark, self-woven spells he would 
drag them down to the depths of poverty, and then leave 
them exposed to the peculiar temptations which, in a great 
city, ever assail girls so young, beautiful, and friendless. Mil- 
dred, he believed, would die rather than sin ; but he often 
groaned in spirit as he thought of Belle. Their considerate 
self-denial that he might not be disturbed after his return 
from business, and their looks of solicitude, pierced him daily 
with increasing torture ; and the knowledge that he added to 
the monotony of their lives and the irksomeness of their pov- 
erty oppressed him with a dejection that was relieved only by 
the cause of all his troubles. 

But the thought of his loving, trusting, patient wife was 
the most unendurable of all. He had loved her from the first 
as his own soul, and her love and respect were absolutely 
essential to him, and yet he was beginning to recoil from her 
with a strange and unnatural force. He felt that he had no 
right to touch her while she remained so true and he was so 


A SLAVE. 


235 

false. He dreaded her loving gaze more than a detective’s 
cold, searching eye. He had already deceived her in regard 
to the marks of the hypodermic needle, assuring her that they 
were caused by a slight impurity in his blood, and she never 
questioned anything he said. He often lay awake through 
interminable nights — the drug was fast losing its power to 
produce quiet sleep — trembling and cold with apprehension 
of the hour when she would become aware that her husband 
was no longer a man, but the most degraded of slaves. She 
might learn that she was leaning, not even on a frail reed, 
but on a poisoned weapon that would pierce her heart It 
seemed to him that he would rather die than meet that hour 
when into her gentle eyes would come the horror of the dis- 
covery, and in fact the oft-recurring thought of it all had 
caused more pain than a hundred deaths. 

Could he go home now and reveal his degradation ? Great 
drops of cold perspiration drenched him at the bare thought. 
The icy waters, the ooze and mud of the river seemed prefer- 
able. He could not openly continue his vice in the presence 
of his family, nor could he conceal it much longer, and the 
attempt to stop the drug, even gradually, would transform 
him almost into a demon of irritability and perhaps violence, 
so frightful is the rebellion of the physical nature against the 
abstinence essential to a final cure. 

At last he matured and carried out the following plan : 
Returning to the firm that had employed him, he told them 
of his purpose to go South among his old acquaintances and 
begin life anew, and of his belief that a sea voyage and change 
of scene would enable him to break the habit ; and he so 
worked upon their sympathies that they promised to say 
nothing of his weakness, and not to let the past stand in his 
way if he would redeem himself. 

Then fortifying his nerves carefully with morphia he went 
home and broached the project to his wife and Mildred* 


286 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


plausibly advancing the idea that the change might restore his 
failing health. To his relief they did not oppose his scheme, 
for indeed they felt that something must be done speedily to 
arrest his decline ; and although the separation would be 
hard for the wife to endure, and would become a source of 
increased anxiety for a time, it was much better than seeing 
him fail so steadily before her eyes. His plan promised im- 
provement in their fortunes and cure of the mysterious disease 
that was slowly sapping his life. Therefore she tearfully 
consented that he should go, and if the way opened favorably 
it was decided that the family should follow him. 

The only question now was to raise the money required ; 
and to accomplish this they sold the household effects still 
in storage, and Mildred, without a word, disposed of the 
most of her jewelry and brought the proceeds to her father ; 
for the gold and gems worn in days that accorded with their 
lustre were as nothing to her compared with her father’ s life 
and health. 

‘ ‘ I would turn my blood into gold if I could, father, ’ ’ 
she said, with swimming eyes, “if it would only make you 
well and strong as you once were.’’ 

The man’s hand so trembled that he could scarcely receive 
the money. When by himself he groaned, 4 4 Oh, how awful 
and deep will be the curse of God if I turn this money 
against her by using it for the damnedest poison the devil 
ever brewed 1” and he wrapped it up separately with a 
shudder. 

A few days later, with many tears and clinging embraces, 
they parted with him, his wife whispering in his ear at the 
last moment, 4 4 Martin, my every breath will be a prayer for 
your safety and health.’’ 

Under the influence of the powerful emotions inspired by 
this last interview he threw his hypodermic syringe and mor- 
phia bottle overboard from the deck of the steamer, saying, 


A SLAVE. 


28 7 

with a desperate resolution which only an opium slave could 
understand, “ I'll break the habit for one week if I die for 
it,” and he sailed away into what seemed a region of un- 
imaginable horrors, dying ten thousand deaths in the in- 
describable anguish of his mind and body. The winter storm 
that soon overtook the ship was magnified by his disordered 
intellect until its uproar was appalling in the last degree. 
The people on the vessel thought him demented, and for a 
few days the captain kept him under a continuous guard, 
and considerately suppressed the cause of his behavior, that 
was soon revealed by requests for opium that were sometimes 
pitiful pleadings and again irritable demands. He soon 
passed into a condition approaching collapse, vomiting in- 
cessantly, and insane in his wild restlessness. Indeed he 
might have died had not the captain, in much doubt and 
anxiety, administered doses of laudanum which, in his in- 
experience, were appalling in their amount. 

At last, more dead than alive, with racking pains, shiver- 
ings and exhaustion from prolonged insomnia, he was taken 
ashore in a Southern city and a physician summoned, who, 
with a promptness characteristic of the profession, administered 
a preparation of morphia, and the old fatal spell was renewed 
at once. The vitiated system that for days had been largely 
deprived of its support seized upon the drug again with a 
craving as irresistible as the downward rush of a torrent 
The man could no more control his appetite than he could 
an Atlantic tide. It overwhelmed his enervated will at once, 
and now that morphine could be obtained he would have it 
at any and every cost. Of course he seemingly improved 
rapidly under its influence, and cunningly disguising his con- 
dition from the physician, soon dismissed him and resumed 
his old habits. He felt that it was impossible to endure the 
horrors of total abstinence, and, now that he was no longer 
under the observation of his family, he again tried to satisfy hi* 


*88 


WITHOUT A HOME 


conscience by promising himself that he would gradually re- 
duce the amount used until he could discontinue it utterly — 
delusive hope, that has mocked thousands like himself. If 
he could have gone to an asylum and surrounded his infirm 
will by every possible safeguard, he might have been carried 
through the inevitable period of horrible depression ; but even 
then the habit had become so confirmed that his chances 
would have been problematical, for experience sadly proves 
that confirmed opium-^nsumers are ever in danger of a 
relapse. 


NEW YORK’S HUMANITY* 


289 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

NEW YORK’S HUMANITY. 

M RS. JOCELYN drooped in her husband’s absence, for 
every year had increased her sense of dependence. She 
felt somewhat like one who is drifting on a wreck. If the 
sea would only remain calm, all might be well ; but the sea 
never is at rest very long, and if storms, dangers, and emer- 
gencies occurred what would she do ? 

Each day that passed without word from her husband grew 
longer, and when at last a letter came it was vague and un- 
satisfactory. He hoped he was better ; he hoped to find a 
foothold ; and then came again several days of silence which 
were almost as oppressive to Mildred as to herself. 

Meanwhile their funds were failing fast, and they both felt 
that they ought not to sell anything else for mere living ex- 
penses. More critical emergencies might arise and find them 
destitute. If Mr. Jocelyn should become seriously ill in the 
South, they must be in a position to have him cared for and 
brought home. Mildred with extreme reluctance was com- 
pelled to face the necessity of giving up her studies so that 
she might earn something at once. She had about decided 
to reveal her troubles to Miss Wetheridge, when a hasty note 
from her friend swept away all immediate chance of aid in 
that direction. “ The gentleman to whom I was soon to be 
married, ’ ’ she wrote, ‘ ‘ has not been strong for a year past, 
and a few days since he was taken with a hemorrhage from 
his lungs. His physician ordered him to go immediately to 


290 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


Nassau. In accordance with our mutual wishes we were 
married quietly in the presence of a few relatives, and by 
the time this note reaches you we shall be on our way to 
the South. My heart is burdened with anxiety, and my 
hourly prayer is that God will spare the life of one so dear tc 
me. I wish I could see you before I sail, but it is impossi- 
ble. I have had to leave almost everything undone. Write 
me often. ’ ’ 

This note threw Mildred on her own resources. She felt 
that Mr. Wentworth could do little for her beyond certifying 
to her character, for he was the pastor of a congregation of 
which a large proportion were as poor as herself. There was 
naught to do but go to work like the others in uncomplain- 
ing silence and earn her bread. 

One evening she learned from Belle that the increased 
trade incident to the approaching holiday season had ren- 
dered more help necessary, and that one large shop on Sixth 
Avenue had already made known this need. When the 
doors opened the following morning, Mildred was among 
the crowd of applicants, and her appearance was so much in 
her favor that she was engaged at once on a salary of six dol- 
lars a week. Only immediate necessity could have induced 
her to take this step, for she justly doubted her ability to en- 
dure the strain of standing continuously. The shop, how- 
ever, was full of girls as frail-looking as herself, and it was 
the only certainty of support within her reach. Her mother 
cried bitterly over the step, and she, also, could not hide a 
few tears, brave as she tried to be ; but she said resolutely, 
“ I'm no better than hundreds of others, and if they can 
endure it I can and will, for a while at least. ’ * 

The first day was one that she never forgot. The bright 
*un and clear, bracing atmosphere brought out crowds of 
ihoppers, but the air of the store soon became vitiated, hot, 
and lifeless. In this close, stifling place she was compelled 


NEW YORK* S HUMANITY. 


2$v 

to stand, elbowed by other girls who were strangers to her, 
and too busy or too indifferent to aid materially her in- 
experienced efforts to learn her duties. She made blunders, 
for which she was scolded ; she grew bewildered and faint, 
and when the few moments of nooning came she could not 
eat the lunch her mother had prepared. If she could only 
have had a cup of strong coffee she might have got through 
the day ; but her employers were much too thrifty to fur- 
nish such a luxury, and she was too tired, and the time 
allotted her much too brief to permit its quest. Therefore 
she tried to rest a little from the intolerable fatigue and pain 
of standing, and to collect her thoughts. 

The afternoon crush of customers was greater even than 
that which had crowded the counters in the morning, and she 
grew more and more bewildered under the confused fire of 
questions and orders. If any one had had the time or heart to 
observe, there would have been seen in her eyes the pathetic, 
fearful look of some timid creature of the woods when harried 
and driven to bay by hounds. 

Suddenly everything grew black before her eyes ; the piled- 
up goods, the chattering throng, faded, and she sank to the 
floor — there was no room for her to fall. 

When she revived she found that she had been carried to 
the cloak-room, in which the girls ate their lunch, and that a 
woman was kneeling beside her applying restoratives. In a 
few moments one of the managers looked in and asked, in 
an off-hand way, ‘ ‘ How is she getting on ?’ ’ 

With the instinct of self-preservation Mildred sat up, and 
pleaded, “ Indeed, sir, I’m better. It was all so strange — 
the air was close. I beg of you not to discharge me. I will 
learn soon.” 

" Oh. don’t be so worried,” the man replied good- 
naturedly. “ It’s nothing new to have a girl faint on the 
first day. You’ll get used to it by and by like the rest 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


292 

Will you be well enough to walk home, or shall I have a 
carriage ordered ?’ ’ 

“ Please don’t get a carriage. It would frighten mamma 
terribly, and she would not let me come back, and I must 
come, for we need every penny I can earn. 

“ Well, now, that’s sensible, and you save the carriage 
hire also. You’re a fine-looking, plucky girl, and I’ll give 
you a place at the lace counter, near the door, where the air 
is better and the work lighter (and where her pretty face will 
do us no harm,” he added mentally). 

“ You are very kind, sir, and I can’t tell you how much I 
thank you.” 

“ All right, you’ll get into training and do as well as the 
best, so don’t be discouraged,” and the man had the grace 
or business thrift — probably a blending of both — to send her 
a cup of coffee. 

She was then left to rest, and go home when she felt like it 
As early as she dared without exciting her mother’s suspicions, 
she crept away, almost as the wounded slowly and painfully 
leave a field of battle. Her temples still throbbed ; in all her 
body there was a slight muscular tremor, or beating sensa- 
tion, and her step faltered from weakness. To her delicate 
organization, already reduced by anxiety, sedentary life, and 
prolonged mental effort, the strain and nervous shock of that 
day’s experiences had been severe indeed. 

To hide the truth from her despondent mother was now 
her chief hope and aim. Her fatigue she would not attempt 
to disguise, for that would be unnatural. It was with diffi- 
culty she climbed the one flight of stairs that led to their 
room, but her wan face was smiling as she pushed open the 
door and kissed her mother in greeting. Then throwing her- 
self on the lounge she cried gayly, “ Come, little mother, 
give me an old maid’s panacea for every ill of life — a cup of 
strong tea. ’ ’ 


NEW YORK'S HUMANITY . 


2 93 


“ Millie, ' ' cried Mrs. Jocelyn, bending over her with moist 
eyes, * 4 you look pale and gone-like — ’ ’ 

“ Oh no, mamma, I’m here — a good hundred and ten 
pounds of me, more or less. ’ ’ 

4 4 But how did you get through the day ?” 

“You will hardly believe it,” was the reassuring reply ; 
“ I’ve been promoted already from work that was hard and 
coarse to the lace counter, which is near the door, where one 
can breathe a little pure air. If the goods were as second- 
hand as the air they would not have a customer. But, 
come, mamma dear, I’m too tired to talk, and would rather 
eat, and especially drink. These surely are good symptoms. ' * 
“ Millie, you are a soldier, as we used to say during the 
war,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, hastening the preparations for sup- 
per ; “ but you cannot deceive a mother’s eyes. You are 
more exhausted than you even realize yourself. Oh, I do 
wish there was some other way. I’d gi r *e all the world if I 
had Mrs. Wheaton’s stout red arms, for I’d rather wash all 
day and half the night than see you and Belle so burdened 
early in life. 

“ I wouldn’t have my beautiful mamma changed even by 
one gray hair,” was the very natural response. 

Belle nearly rendered futile all of Mildred’s efforts to hide 
the worst from her mother ; for, after her duties were over, 
she went eagerly to the shop where she expected to find her 
sister. Having learned that Miss Jocelyn had fainted and 
had gone home some time in the afternoon, she sped almost 
breathlessly after her, and burst into the room with the words, 
“Millie! Millie!” 

Fortunately Mrs. Jocelyn was busy over the stove at the 
moment and did not see Mildred’s strong cautionary gesture ; 
bat Belle’s perceptions were almost instantaneous, and with 
one significant glance of her dark eyes she entered into the 
loving conspiracy. 


294 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ What is it, Belle ?” was Mrs. Jocelyn’s anxious query. 

“I’m wild to know how Millie has got on the first day, and 
whether she has a big fight on her hands as I had. If she has, 
I declare war, too, against all the powers and principalities — 
not of the air, for there wasn’t a breath of it in our store to- 
day. We’ve had a crush, and I’m half dead from trying to 
do two days’ work in one. Ten minutes for lunch. Scores of 
cross customers all wanting to be waited on at once, and the 
floor-walkers flying around like hens bereft of heads, which, 
after all, are never of much use to either. In spite of all, 
here we are, mamma, ready for a cup of your good tea and 
other fixin’s. Now, Millie, it’s your turn. I’ve let off 
enough steam to be safe till after supper. Have you made 
cruel enemies to-day, from whom you desire my protection ?’ ’ 

“ No, Belle,” said Mildred, laughing ; “ I haven’t your 
force and brilliancy, and have made but a humdrum begin- 
ning. I was so stupid at one counter that they transferred 
me to another, and I’m glad of it, for laces are pretty, and 
taking care of them wouldn’ t seem like drudgery at all. Best 
of all, it’s near the door, and every customer will give me a 
sustaining breath. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Millie is standing it capitally for a beginner, ' ’ Belle re- 
marked, with the air of a veteran, as Mildred eagerly drank 
her cup of tea and asked for more. ‘ ‘ I was so tired the first 
night that it seemed as if I could scarcely swallow a mouth- 
ful. ’ ’ 

Thus they carried out the little ruse, careful not to exag- 
gerate, for Mrs. Jocelyn’s intuitions were quick. 

As it was she looked at her child with many misgivings, 
but she tried for their sakes to be cheerful, and praised the 
courage and spirit of both the girls, assuring them that they 
showed their true Southern blood, and that they reminded her 
of their father when, during his brief visits, he talked over the 
long, hard campaigns. 


NEW YORK'S HUMANITY. 


295 


At last they were in the privacy of their ©wn room, and 
Mildred, as if she were the weaker and younger, buried her 
face on her sister’s shoulder and sobbed despairingly, “ Oh, 
Belle, you are the stronger. I fear I can’ t stand it at all. 
I’ve suffered more to-day than in all my life, and my feet 
and back still ache — oh, I can’t tell you.” 

The child soothed and comforted her, and said she had 
suffered just the same at first, and often still she felt that if 
she could not sit down for a few moments she would drop 
down ; “ but there, Millie,” she concluded, with the best 
philosophy the case admitted of, 4 4 you get used to it grad- 
ually — you can get used to anything. ’ ' 

44 I don’t believe I can,” was the dejected reply, 44 and 
yet I must, if we would have shelter and bread. Oh that we 
might hear some good news from papa ! Why don’ t he write 
oftener ? I fear it is because he has nothing cheering to tell 
us.” 

The next morning, in spite of all effort, Mildred was toe 
ill and lame to rise, but she instructed Belle to assure her 
employer that she would come the following day. 

Mrs. Jocelyn tried hard to persuade her not to go back at 
all, and at last Mildred grew a little stem and said emphat- 
ically, “ Please say no more, mamma. We can afford none 
of this weak nonsense. I must earn my bread, as do other 
girls, and have no time to lose.” 

The following day, fortunately, was so stormy that cus- 
tomers were scattering, and Mildred had a chance to gain 
an idea of her duties and to rest a little from time to time, 
for out of consideration of the facts that she had been ill and 
was a beginner, she was permitted to sit down occasionally. 
She was so attractive in appearance, and had brought such 
an excellent certificate of character, that the proprietors were 
inclined to be lenient, and smooth a little the harsh and 
thorny path of a beginner. 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


*96 

And so the weary days dragged on, and she slowly ac* 
quired the power to stand as did the others. They were 
days, however, which ended in a close approach to agony, 
from which the nights brought but slight and temporary 
relief, for so great was the pain in her feet and back that she 
would moan even in her sleep. Her sufferings were scarcely 
less than at first, but, as Belle said, she was * * getting used 
to them. 

It is a well-known fact that many would persist in living 
in spite of all the tortures of the Inquisition. I wonder if 
the old-time inquisitors and their 4 4 familiars’ ’ were ingenious 
enough to compel delicate women to stand and talk all day. 
and sometimes part of the night ? 

In very truth, the poor girl was earning her bread by tor- 
ture, and she soon found that she had many companions in 
suffering who, with woman’s capacity for the patient endur- 
ance of pain, made the best of their lot, often trying to for- 
get themselves in jests, laughter, and gossip, planning, mean- 
while, in odd moments, for some snatch at the few pleasures 
that their brief evenings permitted — pleasures, too often, in 
which Mildred could or would take no part. While her 
gentleness and courtesy to all gave no cause for hostility, her 
air of quiet aloofness and her recognized superiority prevented 
her from becoming a favorite, nor did the many admiring 
looks and even open advances that she received from the 
young men in the store, and occasionally from customers, 
add to her popularity. The male clerks soon found, how- 
ever, that beyond the line warranted by their mutual duties 
she was utterly unapproachable, and not a few of them 
united in the view held by the girls, that she was 44 stuck 
up’ ’ ; but since she was not in the least above her business, 
no one could complain openly. 

As one long, exceedingly busy and weary day was drawing 
to a close, however, she received a sharp reprimand. A 


NEW YORK'S HUMANITY . 


297 


gentleman had agreed to meet his wife at the shop as he 
came up town, in order that they might together make pro* 
vision for Christmas. The lady having nearly accomplished 
her round, and having proved herself a liberal purchaser, she 
was naturally accompanied toward the door by a very 
amiable foreman, who was profuse in his thanks. Suddenly 
it occurred to her that she would look at the laces, and she 
approached Mildred, who, in a momentary respite, was 
leaning back against the shelves with closed eyes, weary be** 
yond all words of description. 

“ Will you please wake that young woman up,” the lady 
remarked, a little sharply. 

This the foreman did, in a way that brought what little 
blood the poor girl had left into her face. The shopper sat 
down on the plush seat before the counter, and w r as soon 
absorbed in the enticing wares, while her husband stood be- 
side her and stole sidelong glances at the weary but beautiful 
face of the saleswoman. 

“ Jupiter Ammon,” he soliloquized mentally, “but she 
is pretty ! If that flush would only last, she’d be beautiful ; 
but she’s too pale and fagged for that — out to a ball last night, 
I imagine. She don’t even notice that a man’s admiring her 
— proof, indeed, that she must have danced till near morning, 
if not worse. What lives these girls lead, if half the stories 
are true ! I’d like to see that one rested, fresh, and becom- 
ingly dressed. She’d make a sensation in a Fifth Avenue 
drawing-room if she had the sense to keep her mouth shut, 
and not show her ignorance and under-breeding. 

But he v/as growing impatient, and at last said, “ Oh, 
come, my dear, you’ve bought enough to break me already. 
We’ll be late for dinner.” 

The lady rose reluctantly, and remarked, “ Well, I think 
I'll come and look at these another day,” and they were 
bo^ed out of the door. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


298 

“You must be more alert/' said the foreman, impera- 
tively, to Mildred. * ‘ Thes;e people are among the best and 
wealthiest in town. ’ ’ 

“ I’ll try," was the meek answer. 

The gentleman had hardly reached the sidewalk, however, 
before all his chivalry and indignation were aroused. Under 
the press of Christmas times a drayman had overloaded his 
cart, and the horse was protesting in his dumb way by refus- 
ing to budge an inch ; meanwhile the owner proved himself 
scarcely equal to the animal he drove by furious blows and 
curses, which were made all the more reckless by his recent 
indulgence in liquor. 

The poor beast soon found many champions, and fore' 
most among them was the critic of the weary shop-girl, who 
had suffered more that day than the horse was capable of 
suffering in his lifetime. The distinguished citizen, justly 
irate, I grant, sent his wife home in their carriage, and declared 
that he would neither eat nor sleep until he had seen the 
brute — the drayman, not the horse — arrested and locked up, 
and he kept his word. 

Much later, the wronged and tortured human creature of 
whom he had surmised evil, and on whom he had bestowed 
at best only a little cynical admiration, crept home with steps 
that faltered, burdened with a heaviness of heart and a wea- 
riness of body which could be measured only by the pitiful 
eye of Him who carries the world’s sins and sorrows. 

The rescued horse munched his oats in stolid tranquillity \ 
the woman raised to heaven her eyes, beneath which were 
dark, dark lines, and murmured, “ O God, how long ?’* 


THE BEA T1TUDES OF OPIUM, 


299 


CHAPTER XXIX, 


THE BEATITUDES OF OPIUM, 


T least once each week Roger took Belle to some even- 



ing entertainment, selecting places that, while inno- 
cent, were in keeping with their years — full of color, life, and 
interest. The young girl improved at once, as the result of 
this moderate gratification of a craving that was as proper as it 
was natural. The sense of being restricted and arbitrarily 
shut away from the pleasures belonging to her youth no 
longer worked like a subtle and evil ferment in her mind. 
The repressed and unhappy are in tenfold more danger from 
temptation than those who feel they are having their share of 
life's good. The stream that cannot flow in the sunshine 
seeks a subterranean channel, and in like manner when cir- 
cumstances, or the inconsiderate will of others, impose un- 
relenting restraint upon the exuberant spirit of youth, it 
usually finds some hidden outlet which cannot bear the light 
Until Roger came, circumstances had restricted Belle within 
such a narrow and colorless life, and she was growing very 
discontented with her lot — a dangerous tendency. Through 
all this long ordeal her mother and Mildred had retained her 
sympathy, for she knew that they were not to blame, and 
that they were right in protesting against all acquaintances 
and amusements which involved danger. Now that she and 
Roger occasionally had a merry time together, and a confi- 
dential chat on Sunday, she accepted her long days of toil 
without complaint. 


joo 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


The wholesome and tonic influence of a few hours of pos- 
itive and unalloyed enjoyment in a busy or burdened life is 
properly estimated by a very few. Multitudes would preach 
better, live better, do more work and die much later, could 
they find some innocent recreation to which they could often 
give themselves up with something of the whole-hearted 
abandon of a child. 

Belle now had pleasures to look forward to, or some bright 
scene to live over again, and, were it not for her sympathy 
for her sister and anxiety on her father s behalf, her brow 
would have been serene. 

To Mildred, however, the days were growing darker and 
the way more thorny. She was gaining only in the power of 
endurance ; she was unconsciously developing the trait that 
bade fair to become the key-note of her life — fidelity. It 
was her absolute loyalty to her long-cherished love that pre- 
vented her from accepting invitations to go with Belle and 
Roger. Through all disguises she saw that the latter was a 
lover and not a friend, and while she had learned to respect 
him much more, she shrank from him none the less. True, 
therefore, to her womanly instincts, and pathetically patient 
with a life full of pain and weariness, she faltered on toward 
a future that seemed to promise less and less. Roger did 
not need to be told by Belle of Mildred’s burdened life, 
although the young girl did speak of it often with sad and 
indignant emphasis. “ Beautiful Millie, who would grace 
the finest house in the city,” she said, ‘ 4 is as much out of 
place in this life as if a gazelle were made to do the work of 
a cart-horse. It’s just killing her. 

“ It’s not the work that’s harming her so much as the 
accursed brutality which permits more cruelty to white women 
than was ever inflicted on black slaves. If the shopkeepers 
owned these girls who serve their counters they would pro- 
vide them seats instantly, on the same principle that some of 


THE BE A TJTUDES OF OPIUM. 


301 


four Southern people, wno had no humanity, cared well fo? 
their human property ; but these fellows know that when a 
girl breaks down they can take their pick from twenty appli- 
cants the next morning. If I could scalp a few of these 
woman-murderers, I’d sleep better to-night. Oh, Belle, 
Belle, if you knew how it hurts me to see such advantage 
taken of Miss Mildred ! I sometimes walk the streets fcrt 
hours chafing and raging about it, and yet any expression of 
my sympathy would only add to her distress. You must 
never speak to her of me, Belle, except in a casual way, when 
you cannot help it, ior only as I keep aloof, even from her 
thoughts, can she tolerate me at all. ’ ’ 

“ Be patient, Roger. Millie is unlike many girls, and 
wants only one lover. Now I’d like half a dozen, more or 
less, generally more. She’s too infatuated with that weak- 
ling, Vinton Arnold, to care for any one else. And to think 
he hasn’t sent her one reassuring word since last summer ! 
There isn’t enough of him to cast a shadow. Catch me 
moping after such a dim outline of a man ! But it’s just like 
Millie. If he’d only vanish into thin air she might give 
him up, and perhaps he has.” 

“ No, he’s in Europe, and has been there ever since he 
left the hotel at Forestville. I learned the fact the other day. 
He’s living in luxury and idleness, while the girl who loves 
him is earning her bread in a way that’s infernal in its 
cruelty. ’ ' 

“ How did you find that out?” Belle asked quickly. 

“ It was in no mean or underhand way, and no knowl- 
edge of my inquiries will ever reach him. I thought she’d 
like to know, however, and you can tell her, but give her no 
hint of the source of your information. 

“Who told you?” was Mildred’s prompt response to 
Belle’s news that night, while a sudden bloom in her pale 
face showed how deeply the tidings interested her 


3 ° 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ No matter how I learned the fact,” replied Belle a little 
brusquely ; “it’s true. He wouldn't lift his little finger to 
keep you from starving. ’ ' 

“You wrong him,” cried Mildred passionately ; “ and I 
don’t wish you ever to speak of him again. I know who 
told you : it was Roger Atwood, and I wish he would leave 
me and my affairs alone. He is singularly stupid and ill- 
bred to meddle in such a matter. ’ ' 

‘ ‘ He has not meddled, ’ ’ retorted Belle indignantly, and 
wholly off her guard ; “he thought you might like to know 
the truth, and he learned it in a way that left no trace. 
When you are in the streets you are always looking for Mr. 
Arnold (it’s a pity he wasn’t doing a little looking, too), 
and now your mind can be at ease. He isn’t sick or dead ; 
he’s entirely safe and having a good time, faring sumptuously 
every day, while you are dying by inches for little more than 
bread and a nook in a tenement-house. I don’ t care what 
you say, I detest such a man. ’ ’ 

Mildred’s overtaxed nerves gave way at Belle’s harsh and 
prosaic words, and throwing herself on her couch she sobbed 
so bitterly that the inconsiderate child, in deep compunc- 
tion, coaxed and pleaded with her not ‘ ‘ to take it so hard, ’ ' 
and ended by crying in sympathy, almost as heartily as Mil- 
dred herself. The latter was completely disarmed of her 
anger by Belle’s feeling , and, indeed, as she came to think 
it all over, it did not seem so like desertion on Arnold’ s part, 
since he might have written from Europe and the letter have 
failed to reach her. That he should have been in New York 
all this time and have made no effort to find her would seem 
heartless indeed. At any rate, with her rare fidelity and 
faith, she would believe nothing against him without absolute 
proof 

But of Roger Atwood she thought resentfully, “ He 
reads my very thoughts. He has seen me looking for Vinr 


THE BE A TI TUBES OF OPIUM . 3°5 

ton half-unconsciously when in the streets. He keeps him- 
self in the background, and no doubt thinks himself very 
distant and considerate ; but I can scarcely turn in any direc- 
tion but I see his shadow, or meet with some indication that 
he is watching and waiting. ’ ’ 

There was more truth in her words than she half suspected. 
His duties required that he should be down town very early 
in the morning, but he was usually released in the afternoon, 
for his uncle tacitly humored his desire for study. Scarcely 
an evening elapsed that the young man did not pass and re- 
pass the shop in which Mildred was employed, for through 
the lighted windows he could see the object of his thoughts 
unobserved, and not infrequently he followed her as she 
wearily returned homeward, and his heart ached with the im- 
potent desire to lighten the burdens of her life. He feared 
that she would never accept of his watchful care or thank 
him for it ; but love is its own reward, and impels to action 
that does not well stand the test of the world’s prosaic judg- 
ment. Beyond this brief and furtive gratification of his pas- 
sion, he lost no time in sighing or sentiment, but bent his 
mind to his tasks with such well-directed and persistent en- 
ergy that the commission merchant occasionally nodded sig- 
nificantly ; for, in accordance with his habit, he took counsel 
of no one except himself. 

It was Roger’s hope that, eventually, Mildred, for her own 
sake, could be persuaded to accompany Belle on some of 
their pursuits of evening recreation, and he suggested that 
the latter should persistently try to induce her to go, say- 
ing that her health and success in the future required 
more change and cheerfulness ; but Mildred always said 
“ No,” with a quiet emphasis which admitted of no argu- 
ment. 

In truth, when evening came she was too weary to go with 
him or with any one else, and the first Sunday after her 


3°4 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


duties at the shop began she could not be present at the 
chapel and meet her class. 

Mr. Wentworth called, fearing she was ill. She explained 
in part, and he was quick to understand. His brow dark- 
ened in such a frown that the poor girl grew frightened, and 
began : “ Indeed, Mr. Wentworth, do not judge me harshly, 
or think that I let a trifle keep me — ’ * 

Then he awakened to her misapprehension, and coming 
directly to her side he took her hand, with a face so kind, 
so full of deep, strong sympathy, that her eyes filled at once. 

“ My poor child,” he said, “ could you imagine I was 
frowning at you ? — brave little soldier that you are, braver 
and stronger in your way and place than I in mine. God 
bless you, no. I felt savage to think that in this nineteenth 
century, and right under the shadow of our church spires, 
this diabolical cruelty is permitted to go on year after year. 
Oh, I know all about it, Miss Mildred ; you are not the first 
one by hundreds and hundreds. I wish I could give you 
more than sympathy, and that some other way would open 
— we must find some other way for you — but you have no 
idea how many are worse off in these bad times than you are 
— worthy people who are willing to work, but cannot get 
work. If it seems to you that 1 cannot do very much foi 
you, remember that there are scores who, for the time seem 
to have no resources at all. I trust you may soon hear such 
tidings from your father as will bring relief to both body 
and mind. And now, my child, don't let a morbid con- 
science add to your burdens. When you are as greatly in 
need of rest as you were last Sunday, don’ t come to the chapel. 
I’ll take your class, or find a substitute.” 

In a few minutes he was gone ; but they were not alone, 
for he had made them conscious of One who is touched with 
the feeling of our infirmities. 

How was the absent husband and father fulfilling the 


THE BEATITUDES OF OPIUM. 


305 


hopes that daily turned to him, but found no reward ? He 
was literally writhing under chains that, to his horror, he 
could not break. He had found on shipboard that sudden 
and complete abstinence from the drug brought a torture of 
mind and body that he could not endure, and now he was 
learning, in sickening fear, that he could not gradually re- 
duce his daily allowance below a certain point without im- 
mediate sufferings beyond his fortitude to sustain. 

The room in the Inquisition, whose circular walls, studded 
with long, sharp spikes, gradually closed upon and pierced 
the victim, had its spiritual counterpart in his present condi- 
tion. He was shut in on every side. If he made a push for 
liberty by abstaining from the drug, he was met and driven 
back by many nameless agonies. He seemed to recoil, in- 
evitably, as if from steel barbs. Meanwhile the walls were 
closing in upon him. In order to prevent life from being a 
continuous burden, in order to maintain even the semblance 
of strength and manhood, so that he might have some chance 
of finding employment, he had to increase the quantity of 
morphia daily ; but each succeeding indulgence brought 
nearer the hour when the drug would produce pain — pain 
only, and death. After a week or two of futile and spasmodic 
effort he drifted on in the old way, occasionally suffering un- 
told agony in remorse and self-loathing, but stifling con- 
science, memory, and reason, as far as possible, by continu- 
ous stimulation. 

His quest of employment was naturally unsuccessful. The 
South was impoverished. Weak from the wounds of war, 
and the deeper enervation of a system that had poisoned her 
life for generations, she had not yet begun to rally. There 
was not enough business in the city for the slow and nerve- 
less hands of its citizens, therefore there was little prospect for 
a new-comer, unless he had the capital and energy to create 
activity in the midst of stagnation. A few were slightly im- 


306 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


posed upon at first by Mr. Jocelyn’s exalted moods, and be- 
lieved that he might do great things if he were given the 
chance ; but they soon recognized that he was unsound and 
visionary, broaching plans and projects that varied widely 
with each succeeding interview. The greater number of his 
former friends and acquaintances were scattered or dead, and 
those who remembered him had their hands too full to do 
more than say a good word for him — saying it, too, more and 
more faintly as they saw how broken and untrustworthy he 
was. The story of his behavior on the ship, and correct sur- 
mises of the true cause of his manner and appearance, soon 
became current in business circles, and the half-pitying, half- 
contemptuous manner of those with whom he came in con- 
tact at last made it clear, even to his clouded mind, that 
further effort would be utterly useless. 

Meanwhile his habit now began to inflict a punishment 
that often seemed beyond endurance. The increased quan- 
tities of morphia with which he sought to sustain himself, 
combined with his anxiety, remorse, and solicitude for his 
family and his own future, filled the hours of darkness with 
one long nightmare of horror. His half-sleeping visions 
were more vivid and real than the scenes of day. From 
some harrowing illusion he would start up with a groan or 
cry, only to relapse a few moments later into an apparent sit- 
uation more appalling and desperate. 

The earth would open and swallow him in fathomless 
darkness ; then he was on a ship caught in a maelstrom and 
whirled down with a speed imaginable only by a mind as 
disordered and morbid as his own. Panting, struggling, 
drenched with a cold perspiration, he would struggle back 
into a brief and miserable consciousness. With scarcely any 
respite his diseased imagination would seize him again, and 
now the ship, with tattered sails and broken masts, would be 
becalmed in the centre of a cyclone. All around him was 


THE BE A TITUDES OF OPIUM. 


3 °? 


the whirling tornado from which the vessel had passed into 
awful silence and deceptive peace. Although viewless, a 
resistless volume was circling round him, a revolving torrent 
of air that might at any second make its existence known by 
wrenching the ship in some direction with such violence as 
to destroy it at once. When would the awful suspense be 
over, and the cyclone, with a peal of thunder through the 
rigging, again lay its frenzied grasp on the ill-fated ship ? In 
unspeakable dread he seemed to spring from the deck in the 
hope of ending all, and would find himself gasping on his 
couch, which vice had made a place of torture, not rest. 

But the visions which most shook his soul were those con- 
nected with his wife and children. He saw them starving ; 
he saw them turned into the street, mocked and gibed at by 
every passer-by. He saw them locked up in prison-cells, 
under the charge of jailers that were half brute, half fiend ; 
he saw Fred and Minnie carried off by an Italian padrone to 
a den reeking with filth, and loud with oaths and obscenity. 
With a hoarse shout of rage he would spring up to avert 
blows that were bruising their little forms ; he saw his wife 
turn her despairing eyes from heaven and curse the hour 
of their union ; he saw Mildred, writhing and resisting, 
dragged from her home by great dark hands that were claws 
rather than hands ; worse than all, he saw Belle, dressed in 
colors that seemed woven from stains of blood, stealing out 
under the cover of night with eyes like livid coals. 

Such are the beatific visions that opium bestows, having 
once enchainecl its victims. Little wonder that, after spend- 
ing nights upon a poisoned rack, Mr. Jocelyn was in no con- 
dition to meet his fellow-men and win their confidence. 

The dark thought crossed his mind more than once that 
he had better never return home — that, since he had lost his 
manhood, life had better go too < but in these darkest and 
most desperate moments the face of his wife would rise be- 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


30B 

sore him, and from her white iips came the cry, “ No I nc« 
no !” with such agonized intensity that he was restrained. 

Moreover, he had not given up hope altogether, and he 
determined to return, and, unknown to his family, consult 
his old physician, who had inadvertently led him into this 
terrible dilemma, and adjure him to undo his work. He 
might aid in concealing the truth from those from whom, oi 
all others, the unhappy man would hidf* his shame. Tfei# 
seemed his one last chance 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED . . 


3°9 


CHAPTER XXX, 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 



N the day preceding Christmas, late in the afternoon, 


V_^/ Roger Atwood boarded a steamer which had just 
arrived from a Southern city. His uncle, the commission 
merchant, was expecting a consignment of tropical fruits, 
and as the young man stood among others waiting to see the 
freight clerk, he overheard one of the vessel' s officers remark, 
“ His name is Jocelyn — so papers on his person indicate — 
and he must be sent to a hospital as soon as possible.” 

Advancing promptly to the speaker, Roger said, “ I over- 
heard your remark, sir, and think I know the gentleman to 
whom you refer. If I am right, I will take him to his 
family immediately.” 

The officer acted with such alacrity as to prove that he was 
very glad to get the sick man off his hands, and Roger noted 
the fact. A moment later he saw Martin Jocelyn, sadly 
changed for the worse, and lying unconscious in a berth. 

“Iam right, I am very sorry to say,” Roger said, after a 
moment, with a long, deep breath. “ This will be a terrible 
shock to his family. ' * 

“ Do you think he is dying ?” the officer asked. 

“ I don’t know. I will bring a physician and take Mr. 
Jocelyn home on one condition — that our consignment of 
produce is delivered at once. I must be absent, and my 
employer’s interests must not suffer in consequence. I am 
doing you a favor, and you must return it just as promptly.” 


3io 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


The freight clerk was summoned, and Roger was assured 
that his uncle’s consignment should take the precedence as 
fast as it could be reached. The young man then hastened 
to find the nearest physician, stopping a moment at his place 
of business to give a hurried explanation of his course. Mr. 
Atwood listened in silence, and nodded merely ; but, as 
Roger hastened away, he muttered, * 4 This mixing himself 
up with other people's troubles isn’t very shrewd, but his 
making capital out of it so that my consignment will all be 
delivered to-night is — well, we’ll call it even. He’s no 
fool. 

The physician was rather young and inexperienced, and 
he pronounced Mr. Jocelyn’s trouble to be congestion of the 
brain. He agreed to go with Roger to the old mansion and 
do what he could for the patient, although holding out slight 
hope of recovery. 

‘ 4 She is learning to associate me with misfortune, and 
will dread my presence as if I were a bird of ill-omen,” 
Roger groaned mentally, as he recalled the several miserable 
occasions which, in the mind of Mildred, were inseparably 
connected with himself ; 4 4 but some day — some day , if I have 
to strive for a lifetime — she shall also learn that it is not I 
who bring the trouble. ’ ’ 

Christmas comes at the darkest and dreariest season of the 
year, making short, cold days, and longer, colder nights the 
holiday season, just as He, whose birth the day commemo- 
rates, comes to human hearts in the darkest and coldest 
hours of desolation. Even in the great city there were few 
homes so shadowed by poverty and sorrow that they were 
not brightened by some indications of the hallowed time. 
The old mansion, that once may have been embowered in 
evergreens, was again filled with the aromatic breath of the 
forest, for Roger had commissioned a friend in the country 
to send so large a supply to Belle that she was embarrassed 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 3 “ 

with riches of hemlock, laurel, and pine, which, although 
given away prodigally, left enough to transform their rooms 
into the aspect of bowers. Since they had not money for 
toys, they could make the Christmas-tide a time of wonder 
and delight to Fred and Minnie in this inexpensive way, and 
Mildred, who would naturally shrink from the wild mountain 
home of the evergreen boughs, found in weaving and arrang- 
ing them into tasteful decorations a pleasure alloyed by only 
one thought — she was indebted for it to Roger Atwood, the 
silent yet determined rival of the man she loved. Though 
he buried his feeling in such profound silence, and hid all 
manifestation so carefully that even her intuition could not lay 
hold of any one thing, and say, ‘ * This proves it, ’ ' she never- 
theless felt the presence of his love, and sometimes thought 
she felt it all the more because of its strong repression. It 
almost vexed her that he made no advances, and gave her 
nothing to resent, while all the time he was seeking her with 
the whole force of his will, or at least waiting for some possi- 
bility of the future. When Belle proposed that he should 
help decorate their living-room, since they, at this season, 
had only the remnants of evenings to give, and were wearied, 
too, almost beyond the power for extra effort, she felt that 
for Belle’s sake she ought not to object, and that for her own 
sake she could not, so scrupulous had been the quiet, distant 
respect with which he had treated her. When he came he 
seemed to anticipate her thoughts and to obey her wishes in 
the arrangement of the greenery, even before she spoke, so 
keen was his observation and quick his sympathy with her 
mind. 

These very facts increased her prejudice and dislike. He 
was too clever, too keen-sighted and appreciative. Had he 
been indifferent toward her, and not so observant, she would 
have soon learned to like him and enjoy his society, for he 
had a bright, piquant way of talking, and was seldom at a 


312 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


loss for words. In fact, he had plenty of ideas, and was fast 
gaining more. One reason why Mildred shrank from him 
in strengthening repulsion was because, in his absorbing in- 
terest and his quick comprehension of her thought and feel- 
ing, he came too near. Without intending it, and in spite 
of himself, he intruded on her woman's privacy ; for no mat- 
ter how careful he might be, or how guarded she was in 
words or manner, she felt that he understood what was in 
her mind. Her natural impulse, therefore, was to shun his 
presence and suppress her own individuality when she could 
not escape him, for only an answering affection on her part 
eould make such understanding appreciation acceptable. 

Roger was not long in guessing quite accurately how he 
stood in her thoughts, and he was often much depressed. 
As he had said to Clara Bute, he had a downright dislike to 
contend against, and this might not change with his success. 
And now it was his misfortune to become associated in her 
mind with another painful event — perhaps a fatal one. She 
might thank him sincerely for his kindness and the trouble 
he had taken in their behalf, but, all the same, deep in hei 
heart, the old aversion would be strengthened. 

“ That invertebrate, Arnold,” he muttered, “ represents 
to her the old, happy life ; I, her present life, and it’s my 
luck always to appear when things are at their worst. After 
to-night she will shudder with apprehension whenever she 
sees me. What zw7/ become of them if Mr. Jocelyn dies !” 

Full of forebodings and distress at the shock and sorrow 
impending over those in whom he was so deeply interested, 
he and the physician placed Mr. Jocelyn in a covered express 
wagon that was improvised into an ambulance, and drove 
up town as rapidly as they dared. 

In response to a low knock Mrs. Jocelyn opened the door, 
and the white, troubled face of Roger announced evil tidings 
before a word was spoken. 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 


313 


** My husband !” she gasped, sinking into a chair. 

The young man knelt beside her and said, “ Mrs. Joce* 
lyn, his life may depend on your courage and fortitude.” 

•He had touched the right chord, and, after a momentary 
and half-convulsive sob, she rose quietly, and said, “ Tell 
me what to do — tell me the worst. ’ ' 

“ I have brought him with me, and I have a physician 
also. I found him on a steamer, by accident They were 
about to send him to a hospital, but I was sure you would 
want him brought home. ’ * 

“ Oh, yes — God bless you — bring him, bring him quick/ 

“ Courage. Good nursing will prevent the worst.” 

Roger hastened back to the patient, stopping on the way 
only long enough to ask Mrs. Wheaton to go to Mrs. Joce- 
lyn’s room instantly, and then, with the physician’s aid, he 
carried the unconscious man to his room, and laid him on 
his bed. 

“ Oh, Martin ! Martin !” moaned the wife, “ how changed 
how changed ! Oh, God ! he’s dying.” 

“ I hope not, madam,” said the physician ; ‘‘at any rate 
we must all keep our self-possession and do our best While 
there is life there is hope.” 

With dilated eyes, and almost fierce repression of all aid 
from other hands, she took the clothing from the limp and 
wasted form. 

“ He is dying,” she moaned ; ‘‘see how unnatural his 
eyes are ; the pupils are almost gone. Oh, God ! why did 
I let him go from me when he was so ill !” 

“ Would you not like Belle and Miss Mildred summoned 
at once ?’ ’ Roger asked. 

‘ ‘ Yes, yes, they ought to be here now ; every moment 
may be precious, and he may become conscious.” 

“ At the same time I would like you to call on Dr. Benton 
in Twenty-third Street,” added the physician. ‘‘He is a 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


3H 

friend of mine, and has had much experience. In so serious 
a case I would like to consult him. ” 

Roger, while on his way to Dr. Benton’s office, passed a 
livery-stable with a coach standing just within the door, and 
he at once resolved that the weary girls should not be ex- 
hausted by flying home in terror-stricken haste. He took 
the carriage, obtained the physician, and explained to him 
what had happened while on the way to the shop in which 
Belle was employed. It was Christmas eve, and the store 
was still crowded with eleventh-hour purchasers, on whom the 
weary child was waiting in a jaded, mechanical way. Her 
vacant look and the dark lines under her eyes proved how 
exhausted she was ; but at the sight of Roger a flash of 
light and pleasure came into her face, and then his expres- 
sion caused it to fade into extreme pallor. 

“ What is it?” she asked, turning from a garrulous cus- 
tomer. 

‘ 1 Don’ t be alarmed ; get your things and come with me. 
I will make it all right with your employer. ” 

‘ ‘ Belle, ’ * he said, when they were by the carriage door, 
“ you must be a brave woman to-night. Your father is 
home, and he is very ill. Perhaps his life depends on quiet 
and freedom from all excitement. Dr. Benton, an experi- 
enced physician, is in the carriage, and will go with us. You 
must tell your sister — I cannot.” 

If Belle had been herself she would not have failed him ; 
but, after the long strain of the day, she became completely 
unnerved at his tidings, and sobbed almost hysterically. She 
could not control herself sufficiently to enter the shop where 
Mildred stood, unconscious of the approaching shadow, and 
so the heavy task of breaking the news fell upon Roger. 
44 If Belle, naturally so strong, was white and faint from the 
long, toilsome day, how wan and ghost-like poor Mildred 
will appear !” was his thought as he sprang to the sidewalk 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED . 


3*S 

They were closing up, and tho discipline of the shop was 
over. Instead of pallor, there was an angry crimson in Mil- 
dred’s cheeks, and an indignant fire in her eyes. She evi- 
dently was deeply incensed, and her companions apparently 
were as greatly amused. When she saw Roger the crimson 
deepened in her face, he*- brow knitted in strong vexation, 
and she went on with her task of putting the goods undei 
her charge in order, as if she had not seen him ; but th$ 
thought flashed through her mind : “Oh that he were to. 
me what he is <o Belle ! Then he might punish my in- 
solent persecutor but he’s the last one in the world to whom 
I can appeal. Oh, where is papa ?” 

“ Miss Jocelyn — ” 

“ Don’t you see you have another beau ?” whispered on$ 
of her companions as she passed out. “You won’t treat 
this one with words and manner that are the same as a slap 
in the face, for he’s too good-looking. ” 

She paid no heed to the gibe, for the young man's tona 
was significant, and she had lifted her eyes to his with eager 
questioning. His grave, sad face banished the flush from 
hers instantly. 

“ Miss Jocelyn,” Roger began again, in a low tone, 
“ you have already learned to associate me with painful ex^ 
periences. I cannot help it. But this, my misfortune, is 
nothing ; you must nerve yourself for anxiety that will test 
even your strength. Your father is home, and ill. I will 
not explain further before strangers. Belle and a physician 
are awaiting you in the carriage.” 

How quiet and measured were his words ; but even in her 
distress she was painfully conscious that the slight tremor in his 
voice was the low vibration of a feeling whose repressed intensity 
would sooner or later break forth. Beyond a momentary shrink- 
ing from what seemed to her but well-mastered vehemence^ 
she gave him no thought in her overwhelming solicitude. 


316 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Scarcely a moment elapsed before she joined him at the 
door. As he placed her in the carriage he said, 4 4 Dr. Ben- 
ton will explain to you what has happened.” 

44 Roger — ” sobbed Belle, but he sprang on the box with 
the driver, and in a few moments they were at the door of 
the old mansion. 

44 Dr. Benton,” said the young man, 44 will you please 
accompany Miss Jocelyn ? After the fatigue of the day and 
the shock of this evening she will need your support,” and 
he saw that she leaned heavily on the physician’s arm. 

Having dismissed the carriage, he found Belle leaning 
against the side of the house, faint and trembling. The 
young athlete lifted her in his arms and bore her steadily' 
and easily to the doorway, and then again up the winding 
stairway. 44 Belle,” he whispered, 44 if you lose your father 
you shall at least have a brother . ’ ' 

She entwined her arm about his neck in mute acceptance 
of the relationship. Her every breath was a low sob, and 
she could not then tell him how his words reassured her, 
taking away, in part, the almost overwhelming terror of 
being left unprotected in the world. 

During Mr. Jocelyn’s absence his family had tried to 
banish from their minds the memory of his weakness, and 
thus they had come to think of him again as the strong, 
cheerful, genial man they had known all their lives. The 
months preceding his departure were like a hateful dream. 
It had been a dearly cherished hope that, after breathing his 
native air for a few weeks, he would return the same frank, 
clear-eyed, clear-brained man that had won his way, even 
among strangers, after the wreck and ruin of the war. To 
him their thoughts had turned daily, in the hope of release 
from toil that was often torture, and from anxieties that filled 
ever}' waking hour with foreboding. 

How bitter the disappointment then, and how terrible the 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 317 

shock, as they now looked upon his prostrate form, meagre, 
shrunken, and almost lifeless ! Instead of the full, dark eyes 
that had beamed mirthfully and lovingly for so many years, 
there was an unnatural contraction of the pupils which ren- 
dered them almost invisible. His once healthful complexion 
was now livid, or rather of a leaden, bluish hue ; his respira- 
tions stertorous and singularly deliberate. 

“ He is dying,” Mildred moaned ; “ he is far, far away 
from us, even now. Oh, if we could have but one look, 
one sign of farewell !” 

Belle and Mrs.. Jocelyn became almost helpless M r ith grief, 
for it did not seem possible to them that he could rally. 
” Oh, why did I let him go — why did I let him go !” wa« 
the wife’s remorseful and often-repeated question. 

The elderly and experienced physician whom Roger bad 
brought ignored with professional indifference the grief- 
stricken household, and was giving his whole mind to the 
study of the case. After examining the pupils of Mr. Joce- 
lyn’s eyes, taking his temperature, and counting his pulse, 
he looked at his associate and shook his head significantly. 
Roger, who stood in the background, saw that Dr. Benton 
did not accept the young physician’s diagnosis. A moment 
later Dr. Benton bared the patient’s arm and pointed to 
many small scars, some old and scarcely visible, and others 
recent and slightly inflamed. The young practitioner then 
apparently understood him, for he said, “ This is both 
worse and better than I feared. 

‘ ‘ Worse, worse, ’ ’ growled Dr. Benton. 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Mrs. Jocelyn, more dead 
than alive. 

4 4 Madam, ’ ’ began Dr. Benton very gravely, “ have you 
never seen your husband using a little instrument like this ?” 
and he produced from his pocket a hypodermic syringe. 

4 4 Never, ’ ’ was the perplexed and troubled reply. 


3iS 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


The physician smiled a little satirically, and remarked, in 
a low aside, “ I hope the drug has not affected the whole 
family. It’s next to impossible to get at the truth in these 
cases. ’ * 

“ Do you think he will die ?” was her agonized query. 

“ No, madam, we can soon bring him around, I think, 
and indeed he would probably have come out of this excess 
unaided ; but he had better die than continue his excessive 
use of morphia. I can scarcely conceive how you could have 
remained ignorant of the habit. 

Mildred bowed her head in her hands with a low, despair- 
ing cry, for a flash of lurid light now revealed and explained 
all that had been so strange and unaccountable. The terri- 
ble secret was now revealed, as far as she was able to compre- 
hend it— her father was an opium inebriate, and this was 
but the stupor of a debauch ! The thought of his death had 
been terrible, but was not this worse ? She lifted her face in 
a swift glance at Roger, and saw him looking at her with an 
expression that was full of the strongest sympathy, and some- 
thing more. She coldly averted her eyes, and a slow, deep 
flush of shame rose to her face. “ Never shall I endure a 
humiliation but he will witness it, and be a part of it,” was 
her bitter thought. 

The physicians meanwhile changed their treatment, and 
were busy with professional nonchalance. Mrs. Jocelyn 
was at first too bewildered by their words and manner to do 
more than look at them, with hands clasping and unclasping 
in nervous apprehension, and with eyes full of deep and 
troubled perplexity. Then, as the truth grew clearer, that a 
reflection had been made upon her own and her husband’s 
truth, she rose unsteadily to her feet, and said, with a 
pathetic attempt at dignity, “ I scarcely understand you, 
and fear that you as little understand my husband’s con- 
dition. He never concealed anything from me. He has 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 319 

been unfortunate and in failing health for months, and that 
is all. I fear, from your cruel and unjust surmises, that you 
do not know what you are doing, and that you are destroy- 
ing his slender chances for life." 

“ Do you wish to discharge us, then ?" was Dr. Benton’s 
brusque response. He was a man of unusual skill, but 
blunt and unsympathetic, especially in cases wherein he sus- 
pected deception — an element almost inseparable from tite 
morphia habit. The victim is almost invariably untruthful, 
and the family not unfrequently hide the whole truth in the 
desire to shield the disgraceful weakness. Dr. Benton was 
too familiar with these facts to be easily moved, but when 
the sad- hearted wife clasped her hands and cried, in tones 
that would touch the coldest heart, ‘ ‘ I wish him to live, for 
his death would be far worse than death to us all," the phy- 
sician said kindly, ‘‘There, there, Mrs. Jocelyn, I have 
seen many cases like this. Your husband will live, and will 
soon be able to speak to you. If you then can induce him to 
leave morphia alone, he may become as sound a man as ever. ’ * 

Mildred put her arm around her mother and drew her into 
her room, closing the door. 

A few moments later Roger heard the wife’s passionate 
protest, ‘I do not believe it — I will never believe it." 
Then Dr. Benton said to him, “ Here, young man, run to 
my house for an electric battery. 

When he returned Mr. Jocelyn was coming slowly out oi. 
his deep coma, and his appearance was changing rapidly for 
the better. There was a deep, indignant flush on Mrs. 
Jocelyn’s face, and she took Roger aside and said earnestly, 
41 Never believe the lies you have heard here to-night. I 
know that you will never repeat them." 

“ Never, Mrs. Jocelyn." 

But Mildred was pale and almost stony in her cold, calm 
aspect ; her heart, in her desperation, was hard toward every 


3*0 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


one. Belle had not comprehended the truth at all, having 
been too much overwhelmed by her emotions to heed the 
earlier remarks of the physicians, and Mildred had said to 
them significantly and almost sternly, ‘ * There is no need of 
giving your diagnosis any further publicity. 

Dr. Benton had then looked at her more attentively, and 
muttered, “ An unusual girl ; more’s the pity.” 

“ Mr. Atwood,’ Mildred began, a few moments after his 
entrance, “ we thank you for your aid in this painful emer- 
gency, but we need trouble you no further. Papa is rallying 
fast I will thank you to inform me of all the expense 
which you have incurred in our behalf at your earliest con- 
venience. ’ * 

“ Mildred, ” interposed Mrs. Jocelyn, suddenly appearing 
from beside her husband’s couch, the unwonted fire still 
burning in her usually gentle eyes, ‘ ‘ I cannot permit Mr. 
Atwood to be dismissed so coldly. He has been a true 
friend in the most terrible emergency of our lives. I must 
have a strong, kind hand to sustain me now that my hus- 
band, my life, has been foully slandered in his own home. ’ * 

Belle, in even greater terror of being left alone, clung to 
his arm, and said, “ He cannot leave us — he has made me a 
promise this night which will keep him here. 

With a troubled and deprecating look at Mildred, Roger 
replied, “ I will not fail you, Mrs. Jocelyn, nor you, Belle ; 
but there is no further need of my intruding on your privacy. 
I shall be within call all night. ’ ’ 

“ He can stay hin my room,” said Mrs. Wheaton, who> 
although aiding the physicians, could not help overhearing 
the conversation. 

“ No, he shall stay here,” cried Belle passionately ; ” I’m 
so unnerved that I’m almost beside myself, and he quiets me 
and makes me feel safer. Millie has no right to show her 
prejudice at such a time. ' ' 


THE SECRET VICE REVEALED. 


321 


Mildred, white and faint, sank into a chair by the table 
and buried her face in her arms, leaving the young fellow in 
sore perplexity as to what course he ought to take. He be- 
lieved the physicians were right, and yet Mrs. Jocelyn had 
taken it for granted that he shared her faith in her husband’s 
truth, and he knew she would banish him from her presence 
instantly should he betray a doubt as to the correctness of 
her view. At the same time the expression of his face had 
shown Mildred that he understood her father's condition 
even better than she did. It seemed impossible to perform 
the difficult and delicate part required of him, but with love s 
loyalty he determined to do what he imagined the young girl 
would wish, and he said firmly, ‘ ‘ Belle, I again assure you 
that you can depend upon my promise to the utmost. Mrs. 
Jocelyn, my respect for you is unbounded, and the privilege 
of serving you is the best reward I crave. At the same time 
I feel that it is neither right nor delicate for me to witness 
sorrows that are so sacred. My part is to help, and not look 
on, and I can help just as well if within call all the time. 
Belle, ’ ’ he whispered, ‘ ‘ dear Belle, I know you are un- 
nerved by weeks of overwork as well as by this great trouble, 
but be a brave little woman once more, and all may soon be 
well, ’ ’ and he was about to withdraw when Dr. Benton ap- 
peared and said: 

** Mrs. Jocelyn, your husband is now out of all immediate 
danger, but everything depends upon his future treatment. I 
wish this young man to remain a little longer, for you must now 
decide upon what course you will take. We have been called 
in an emergency. There is no need that I should remain 
any longer, for the physician who accompanied him here is 
now amply competent to attend to the case. You have, how- 
ever, expressed lack of confidence in us, and may wish to 
send for your own physician. If so, this young man can go 
for him at once. I can prove to you in two minutes that I 


3 22 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


am right, and I intend to do so ; then my responsibility 
ceases. Everything depends on your intelligent and firm 
co-operation with whatever physician has charge of the case, 
and it is no kindness to leave you under a delusion that does 
your heart more credit than your head or eyes. ’ ’ 

He stepped back through the curtained doorway, and re- 
turned with her husband’s vest, from an inner pocket of 
which he took a hypodermic syringe, a bottle of Magendie’s 
solution, and also another vial of the sulphate of morphia. 

“ I am an old physician,” he resumed, “ and know your 
husband’s symptoms as well as you know his face. His 
possession of these articles should confirm my words. The 
slight scars upon his arms and elsewhere were made by this 
little instrument, as I can show you if you will come and 
observe — ’ ’ 

His medical logic was interrupted by a low cry from the 
stricken wife, and then she fainted dead away. 

Mildred, on the contrary, stepped forward, with a pale, 
stem face, and said, “ I will take charge of these,” and she 
carried the agents of their ruin to her own room. Instantly 
she returned, and assisted Mrs. Wheaton in the restoration 
of her mother. 

To Belle, who had looked on dazed, trembling, and be- 
wildered, Roger whispered. “ I shall be within call all 
night” 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS, 


323 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN OPIUM MANIAC’S CHRISTMAS. 

B ENEATH his brusque manner Dr. Benton masked a 
kind heart when once its sympathies were touched. 
He soon became satisfied that Mr. Jocelyn’s family were not 
trying to shield his patient, but were, on the contrary, over- 
whelmed with dismay and shame at the truth which he had 
made clear to them. He therefore set about helping them, 
in his own prosaic but effective way, and he did not leave 
them until they were all as well and quiet as the dread cir- 
cumstances of the situation permitted. Opium slaves are 
subject to accidents like that which had overtaken Mr. Joce- 
lyn, who, through heedlessness or while half unconscious, 
had taken a heavy overdose, or else had punctured a vein 
with his syringe. Not infrequently habitues carelessly, reck- 
lessly, and sometimes deliberately end their wretched lives in 
this manner. Dr. Benton knew well that his patient was in 
no condition to enter upon any radical curative treatment, 
and it was his plan to permit the use of the drug for a few 
days, seeking meanwhile to restore as far as possible his 
patient’s shattered system, and then gain the man’s honest 
and hearty co-operation in the terrible ordeal essential to 
health and freedom. If Mr. Jocelyn had not the nerve 
and will-power to carry out his treatment — which he much 
doubted — he would advise that he be induced to go to an 
institution where the will of others could enforce the absti- 
nence required. He believed that Mr. Jocelyn would consent 


3 2 4 


W fHOUT A HOME. 


to this, when convinced of his inability to endure the ordeal 
in his own strength. Having explained his intentions and 
hopes to Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred, he left them cast down 
indeed, but not utterly devoid of hope. 

It seemed to them that the husband and father must re* 
nounce the fatal habit at once, in response to their appeals. 
They could not understand that it was already beyond his 
power to break his chains — that they must be broken by 
other hands, if broken at all. 

It may well be doubted if the light of Christmas day 
dawned on a sadder household than that which was sheltered 
in the old mansion. Worn and exhausted to the last degree, 
and yet sleepless from anxiety, grief, and shame, the two 
women watched beside the fitful, half-conscious man. At 
last he appeared to throw off his stupor sufficiently to recog- 
nize his wife ; but it was with a strange look, in which were 
blended fear, suspicion, and shame. A cold perspiration 
broke out over his whole form, for something in her expres- 
sion, and especially in the aspect of Mildred’s face, seemed 
to indicate that they knew all, and his own guilty fears and 
conscience made the surmise true for the moment ; but the 
tender manner in which his wife wiped his brow and kissed 
him were reassuring, and with his rallying powers grew the 
hope that his weakness might yet be unknown and success- 
fully concealed until, by his physician’s aid, he had thrown 
off the curse. Fearing above and beyond all things else that 
his wife would learn his degradation, he slowly and fitfully 
tried to mature plans of deception ; but his enfeebled mind 
rallied so slowly that he felt for a time that silence and ob- 
servation were his best allies. He would cautiously and 
suspiciously feel his way, and having learned all that had 
transpired since he remembered being on the steamer, he 
could then decide more clearly how to shape his course. 
He therefore affected to regard his condition as the result of 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS. 325 

a severe illness, and murmured that “ quiet and home life 
would soon bring him round.” 

Mildred kissed him also, and answered, w We cannot 
think otherwise, papa, for our love, our lives, and all are 
bound up in you.” 

The morning dragged heavily away, for all except the little 
ones were under the impression that dark and woeful days 
were before them. Dr. Benton had not disguised the truth 
— that the problem with which they had to deal was one of 
great difficulty and much doubt. This prospect was de- 
pressing, but that which weighed like lead upon their hearts 
was the thought that one who had ever been their ideal of 
honor and truth had deceived them for months, and had 
steadily yielded to a habit which he knew must destroy his 
family’s honor and leave them friendless, penniless, and dis- 
graced. The weeks of pain that Mildred had endured were 
not the result of a hard necessity, but of a vicious indulgence 
of a depraved appetite. Not disease but sin had so darkened 
their lives and brought them to a pass where even daily bread 
and shelter for the future were doubtful questions. 

“ A thousand times Mildred asked herself, “ How can I 
go out and face the world with my name blackened by this 
great cloud of .shame ?” She felt as if she never wished to 
step into the open light of day again, and the thought of 
Vinton Arnold made her shudder. “ There is now a great 
gulf between us,” she moaned. “ The truth that my father 
is an opium slave can never be hidden, and even were Vinton 
inclined to be faithful, his family would regard me as a leper, 
and he will yield to their abhorrence.” 

The wound in both her own and her mother’s heart was 
deep indeed. Their confidence was shattered, their faith in 
human goodness and honor destroyed. While they still 
hoped much, they nevertheless harbored a desperate fear, 
and, at best, the old serene trust could never return. Even 


326 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


if Mr. Jocelyn could rally and reform, there would eve! 
remain the knowledge that he had once been weak and false, 
and might be again. He would be one who must be 
watched, shielded, and sustained, and not one upon whom 
they could lean in quiet faith. The quaking earth which 
shatters into ruin the material home brings but a slight 
disaster compared with the vice that destroys a life-long trust 
in a husband and father. 

Mr. Jocelyn’s nerves were much too weak and irritable to 
endure his children’s voices, and their innocence and un- 
consciousness of danger smote him with unendurable re- 
morse ; they were, therefore, sent to Mrs. Wheaton’s room. 
There, too, Belle met Roger, and was much reassured by his 
hopeful words. She only half comprehended the truth con- 
cerning her father, and now, feeling the worst was past, her 
mercurial nature was fast regaining ite cheerfulness. She 
was one who might despair one day and be joyous the next 
Like her father, she had unlimited courage, and but little 
fortitude. Although she did not know it, the outlook for 
her was more threatening than for any of the others, for she 
could not patiently submit to a slow, increasing pressure of 
poverty and privation. As her father feared, she might be 
driven to interpose the protest of a reckless life. 

Mr. Jocelyn was greatly reassured when Dr. Benton called, 
and treated him with much respect ; and when a liberal 
allowance of morphia was injected into his arm, he became 
quite cheerful, believing that not only his family but even 
the physician was unaware, as yet, of his weakness. By 
neither sign nor word did Dr. Benton indicate his knowl- 
edge, for it was his design to rally his patient into the best 
possible condition, and then induce him to yield himself up 
wholly to medical skill, naturally believing that in his pres- 
ent enfeebled state he would shrink from entering on the 
decisive and heroic treatment required. Promising to call in 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS. 


3*7 


the evening, he left Mr. Jocelyn apparently very much im- 
proved. 

In the afternoon Mildred went to her room to seek a little 
rest. The physician thought he had given enough of the 
drug to satisfy his patient until he returned, but he had not 
properly gauged the morbid craving with which he was trying 
to deal, and as the day declined Mr. Jocelyn became very 
restless. Finally, he said he felt so much better that he 
would rise and dress himself, and, in spite of his wife’s re- 
monstrances, he persisted in doing so. Although tottering 
from weakness, he said, irritably, and almost imperiously, 
that he needed no help, and wished to be alone. With sad 
foreboding his wife yielded, and waited tremblingly for his 
next step, for he had become to her an awful mystery. 

Her fears were fulfilled, for he soon lifted the curtain door 
and looked at her in a strange, suspicious manner. * ‘ I miss 
some medicine from my vest pocket,” he said hesitatingly. 

Her face crimsoned, and she found no words with which 
to reply. 

‘ ‘ Did you take it out ?’ ’ he demanded sharply. 

“ No,” she faltered. 

His manner began to grow excited, and he looked like a 
distorted image of his former self. Anger, suspicion, fear, 
and cunning were all blended in his face, but he so far mas- 
tered himself as to assume a wheedling tone and manner as 
he came toward her and said, “ Nan, it was only a little tonic 
that I found beneficial while in the South. You must know 
where it is. Please give it to me. 

The poor woman was so overcome by her husband’s ap- 
pearance and falsehood that she felt sick and faint, and knew 
not what to say. 

“Where is it?” he demanded angrily, for he felt that 
unless he had the support of the drug speedily, he would 
wholly lose his self-control. 


328 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


‘ * Oh, Martin, ’ ’ pleaded his wife, 4 4 wait till Dr. Benton 
comes ; he will be here this evening.’ ’ 

4 4 Why this ado about nothing ? I merely wish to take a 
little tonic, and you look as if I proposed suicide. 

4 4 Martin, Martin, it is suicide of body and soul. It is 
worse than murder of me and your innocent children. Oh, 
Martin, my heart’s true love, make me a Christmas gift that 
I will prize next to Him from whom the day is named. 
Give me the promise that you will never touch the vile 
poison again, ’ ’ and she knelt before him and sought to take 
his hand. 

For a moment he was overwhelmed. She evidently kne\* 
all ! He sank into a chair, and trembled almost convulsively. 
Then came the impulse — an almost inevitable effect of the 
drug upon the moral nature — to lie about the habit, and to 
strive to conceal it, even after an unclouded mind would see 
that deception was impossible. 

4 4 Nan, ’ ’ he began, as he grew a little quieter, 4 4 you take 
cruel advantage of my weak nerves. You must see that I 
am greatly reduced by illness, and I merely wish to take a 
little tonic as any sane man would do, and you treat me to 
a scene of high tragedy. Give me my medicine, and I 
know that I shall soon be much better.” 

44 Oh, my husband, has it really come to this ?” and the 
wretched wife buried her face in her arms, and leaned heavily 
on the table. 

He was growing desperate. Through excess he had al* 
ready reached a point where oi dinary life became an un- 
endurable burden without the stimulant ; but facing a har- 
rowing scene like this was impossible. He felt that his ap- 
petite was like a savage beast on which he held a weakening 
and relaxing grasp. With the strange, double consciousness 
of the opium maniac, he saw his wife in all her deep distress, 
%nd he had the remorse of a lost soul in view of her agony 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS. 


3*9 


he was almost certain that she knew how he had wronged her 
and his children, and he had all the shame and self-loathing 
of a proud, sensitive man ; he knew that he was false to the 
sacred trusts of husband and father, and that awful thing we 
call a sense of guilt added its deep depression. It is not in- 
ability to comprehend his degradation, his danger, his utter 
loss of manhood, which opium imposes on its wretched slave, 
but an impossibility to do aught except gratify the resistless 
craving at any and every cost All will-power has gone, all 
moral resistance has departed, and in its place is a gnawing, 
clamorous, ravening desire. The vitiated body, full of inde- 
scribable and mysterious pain, the still more tortured mind, 
sinking under a burden of remorse, guilt, fear, and awful im- 
agery, both unite in one desperate, incessant demand for 
opium. 

While his wife sat leaning upon the table, her face hidden, 
she was the picture of despair ; and, in truth, she felt almost 
as if she were turning into stone. If her husband had been 
brought home a mangled, mutilated man, as she often feared 
he might be during the long years of the war, she would have 
bent over him with a tenderness equalled only by the pride 
and faith that had ever found in him their centre ; but this 
strange apparition of a man with odd, sinister-looking 
eyes, who alternately threatened and cowered before her — 
this man, mutilated more horribly in the loss of truth and 
love, who was thus openly and shamelessly lying — oh, was 
he the chivalric, noble friend, who had been lover and hus- 
band for so many years ! The contrast was intolerable, and 
the sense of his falseness stung her almost to madness. She 
did not yet know that opium, like the corruption of the 
grave, blackens that which is the fairest and whitest 

For a few minutes Mr. Jocelyn debated with himself. 
Was he strong enough to go out to the nearest drug-store ? 
After one or two turns up and down the room he found 


33 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


that he was not. He might fall in utter collapse while on 
the way, and yet his system, depleted by his recent excess, 
demanded the drug with an intensity which he could not re- 
strain much longer without becoming wild and reckless. 
He therefore said to his wife, in a dogged manner, ‘ * Nan, I 
must have that medicine. 

The gentle creature was at last goaded into such a burst of 
indignation that for a few moments he was appalled, and 
trembled before her. The fire in her blue eyes seemed to 
scorch away her tears, and standing before him she said pas- 
sionately, ‘ 4 As you are a man and a Southern gentleman, 
tell me the truth. I never concealed a thought from you ; 
what have you been concealing from us for weeks and 
months ? I wronged you in that I did not think and plan 
day and night how to save instead of how to spend, and I 
can never forgive myself, but my fault was not deliberate, not 
intentional. There was never a moment when I tried to 
deceive you — never a moment when I would not have suffer- 
ed hunger and cold that you and the children might be 
warmed and fed. What is this tonic for which you are bar- 
tering your health, your honor and ours, your children’s 
bread and blood? Mildred sold her girlhood’s gifts, the 
few dear mementoes of the old happy days, that you might 
have the chance you craved. That money was as sacred as 
the mercy of God. For weeks the poor child has earned 
her bread, not by the sweat of her face, but in agony of 
body and unhappiness of heart If it were disease that had 
so cast us down and shadowed our lives with fear, pain, and 
poverty, we would have submitted to God’s will and watched 
over you with a patient tenderness that would never have 
faltered or murmured ; but it’ snot disease, it’s not something 
that God sent. It is that which crimsons our faces with shame. ' ' 

He sat cowering and trembling before her, with his face 
buried in his hands. 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS. 


33 1 


In a sudden revulsion of tenderness she sank again on her 
knees before him, and pleaded in tones of tenderest pathos : 
“ Martin, I know all ; but I am ready to forgive all if you 
will be true from this time forward. I know now the cause 
of all your strange moods which we attributed .to ill-health ; 
I know the worst ; but if, in humble reliance upon God, 
you will win back your manhood, the past evil days shall be 
blotted out, even as God blots out our sins and remembers 
them no more against us. We will sustain your every effort 
with sympathy and loving faith. We will smile at cold and 
hunger that you may have time — Great God !” and she 
sprang to her leet, white, faint, and panting. 

Her husband had taken his hands from his face, and glared 
at her like a famished wolf. In his desperate, unnatural 
visage there was not a trace of manhood left. 

“ Give me the bottle of morphia you took from my 
pocket,” he demanded, rising threateningly. “ No words ; 
you might as well read the Ten Commandments to an un- 
chained tiger. Give it to me, or there is no telling what may 
happen. You talk as if I could stop by simply saying, coolly 
and quietly, I will stop. Ten thousand devils ! haven’t I 
suffered the torments of the damned in trying to stop ! Was 
I not in hell for a week when I could not get it ? Do you 
think I ask for it now as a child wants candy ? No, it’s the 
drop of water that will cool my tongue for a brief moment, 
and as you hope for mercy or have a grain of mercy in your 
nature, give it to me nozv , now, now !” 

The poor wife tottered a step or two toward her daughter’s 
room, and fell swooning at the threshold. Mildred opened 
the door, and her deep pallor showed that instead of sleeping 
she had heard words that would leave scars on memory until 
her dying day. 

“The poison you demand is there,” she said broken- 
ly, pointing to her bureau. “ After mamma’s appeal 


332 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


I need not, cannot speak, ” and she knelt beside hei 
mother. 

Her father rushed forward and seized the drug with the as- 
pect of one who is famishing. Mildred shuddered, and would 
not see more than she could not help, but gave her whole 
thought and effort to her mother, who seemed wounded unto 
death. After a few moments, to her unbounded surprise, 
her father knelt beside her and lifted her mother to a lounge, 
and, with a steady hand and a gentle, considerate manner, 
sought to aid in her restoration. His face was full of solici- 
tude and anxiety — indeed he looked almost the same as he 
might have looked and acted a year ago, before he had ever 
imagined that such a demon would possess him. 

When at last Mrs. Jocelyn revived and recalled what had 
occurred, she passed into a condition of almost hysterical 
grief, for her nervous system was all unstrung. Mr. Jocelyn, 
meanwhile, attended upon her in a silent, gentle, self- 
possessed manner that puzzled Mildred greatly, although she 
ascribed it to the stimulant he had taken. 

After a few minutes a strange smile flitted across his face, 
and he disappeared within his own apartment. A little later, 
Mildred, returning from a momentary absence, saw him with- 
draw his syringe from the arm of her half-conscious mother. 

“ What have you done?” she asked sternly, and hasten- 
ing to his side. 

Secreting the instrument as a miser would his gold, he 
answered, with the same strange smile, “ She shall have a 
merry Christmas yet ; I have just remembered the day. See 
how quiet she is becoming ; see that beautiful flush stealing 
into her pale face ; see the light dawning in her eye. Oh, 
I gauged the dose with the skill of the best of them ; and 
see, my hand is as steady as yours. I’m not a wreck yet. 
and all may still be well. Come, this is Christmas night, 
and we will keep it in good old Southern stvle. Where are 


AN OPIUM MANIAC S CHRISTMAS . 


333 


Belie and the children ? Ah ! here they are. Where have 
you been, Belle ?” 

“ In Mrs. Wheaton’s room,” she replied, looking at her 
father in much surprise. ‘ 4 I was trying to keep the children 
quiet, so that you, mamma, and Millie might have a little 
rest ” 

“ That was very kind and good of you, and you now see 
that l am much better ; so is mamma, and with your help 
and Mildred’s we shall have a merry Christmas night together 
aftei all.” 

“ .Papa is right,” Mrs. Jocelyn added with vivacity. “ I 
do feel much better, and so strangely hopeful. Come here, 
Belle. I’ve scarcely seen you and the children all day. 
Kiss me, darlings. I believe the worst is now past, that 
papa will soon be well, and that all our troubles will end in 
renewed prosperity and happiness. I have been looking on 
the dark side, and it was wrong in me to do so. I should 
have had more faith, more hope, more thankfulness. I 
should bless God for that sight — Fred and Minnie on their 
father’s knees as in old times. Oh, what a strange, bright 
turn everything has taken.” 

“ Mamma dear,” said Belle, who was kneeling and 
caressing her, “ can I not ask Roger in to see you ? He has 
looked like a ghost all day, from anxiety about you.” 

“ Oh, no, no,” gasped Mildred. 

“ Now, Millie,” began Mrs. Jocelyn in gentle effusion, 

you carry your prejudice against Roger much too far. H* 
has been the world and all to Belle since he came to town. 
Belle was like a prisoned bird, and he gave her air and room 
to fly a little, and always brought her back safe t® the nest. 
Think of his kindness last night (suddenly she put her hand 
to her brow as if troubled by something half forgotten, but 
her serene smile returned). Papa, thanks to Roger’s kind- 
ness, is here, and he might have been taken to a hospital \ 


334 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


now feel assured that he will overcome all his troubles. 
What we need is cheerfulness — the absence of all that is de- 
pressing. Roger is lonely away from his home and people, 
and he shall share our Christmas cheer ; so, call him, Belle, 
and then you and Millie prepare as nice a supper as you 
can ;” and the girl flew to make good a prospect so in ac- 
cordance with her nature. 

Mildred almost as precipitately sought her room. A 
moment later Roger was ushered in, and he could scarcely 
believe his eyes. The unconscious man, whom he at this 
time on the previous day believed dying, had his children on 
his lap, and was caressing them with every mark of affection. 
Although he still appeared to be very much of an invalid, 
and his complexion had a sallow and unnatural hue, even in 
the lamplight, it was difficult to believe that twenty-four 
hours before he had appeared to be in extremis . When he 
arose and greeted Roger with a courtesy that was almost fault- 
less, the young fellow was tempted to rub his eyes as if all 
were a dream. Mrs. Jocelyn, too, was full of cheerfulness 
and hope, and made him sit beside her while she thanked 
him with a cordiality and friendliness that seemed even tinged 
with affection. If memory could be silenced there would be 
nothing to dispel the illusion that he looked upon an hum- 
ble but happy home, unshadowed by any thought of danger 
or trouble. As it was, the illusion was so strong that he en- 
tered into the apparent spirit of the occasion, and he chatted 
and laughed with a freedom and ease he had never yet known 
in their presence. 

“Where is Millie?” Mrs. Jocelyn suddenly asked. 
“ We must be all together on this happy occasion. Minnie, 
call her, for I do not wish a moment of this long-deferred 
hour marred or clouded. ’ ’ 

“ Millie,” cried the child, opening the door, “ mamma 
wants you to come right away. We are having a lovely time. ” 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS . 


335 


“ Don’t mind Millie’s ways,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, touch- 
ing Roger’s arm and giving him a little confidential nod. 

You misunderstand each other/' 

These words, with her manner, struck Roger as peculiar 
in one who had ever seemed to him the embodiment of deli- 
cacy, but he was too inexperienced to gauge them properly. 
When he turned, however, to bow to Mildred, who entered 
and ock •>. seat in a distant comer, he was startled by her 
extreme pallor, but acting on Mrs. Jocelyn’s advice he tried 
to act as before, resolving, nevertheless, that if his presence 
continued to be a restraint on one for whom he was ever 
ready to sacrifice himself, he would speedily depart Belle 
was radiant in her reaction from the long, miserable day, 
and, with a child’s unconsciousness, gave herself up to her 
happiness. 

“ Millie shall rest as well as yourself, mamma, for she was 
up all night, and I’ll get supper and prove what a housewife 
I am. Roger, if you do not swallow everything I prepare 
without a wry face, and, indeed, with every appearance oi 
relish, I shall predict for you the most miserable old bachelor- 
hood all your days. 

“I am afraid you will put Roger’s gallantry to a very 
severe test,” cried Mrs. Jocelyn gayly. “ Indeed, I fear we 
have not very much for supper except the warmest good-will. 
Our poverty now, however, will not last long, for I feel that 
I can so manage hereafter as to make amends for all the past. 
I can see that I am the one who has been to blame ; but all 
that’s past, and with my clearer, fuller knowledge and larger 
opportunities I can do wonders.” 

Roger was much struck by the peculiar smile with which 
Mr. Jocelyn regarded his wife as she uttered these words. 

“ Lemme show you what Aunty Wheaton gave me dis 
mornin’,” lisped Fred, pulling Roger up. 

As he rose he caught a glimpse of Mildred’s face, and saw 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


33 6 

that she was regarding her mother and father in undisguised 
horror. Something was evidently wrong— fearfully wrong. 
There was a skeleton in that cheerful lighted room, and the 
girl saw it plainly. Never would he forget her terrible ex- 
pression. He trembled with apprehension as he stood over 
the child’s toy and tried to imagine what it was that had sud- 
denly filled the place with a nameless dread and foreboding. 
So quick and strong was his sympathy for Mildred, so un- 
mistakable had been the expression of the girl’s face, that he 
was sure something must soon occur which would explain 
her fears. 

He was right, for at this moment Dr. Benton knocked, 
entered, and took the chair he had vacated. The physician 
looked with some surprise at his patient and Mrs. Jocelyn’s 
flushed, smiling face. As he felt her pulse her sleeve fell 
back, and he saw the ominous little red scar, and then he 
understood it all, and fixed a penetrating glance on the face 
of her husband, who would not meet his eye. 

“I have done you wrong, Dr. Benton,” Mrs. Jocelyn 
began volubly, “ for we all are indebted to your skill that 
my husband is so much better. This day, which promised 
to pass so sadly, has a bright ending, thanks to your timely 
remedies. We are once more a united household, and I can 
never thank our dear young friend here, Mr. Atwood, 
enough that he discovered my husband and brought him to 
us and to your able treatment. Surely, Millie, your preju- 
dice against him must vanish now, for — ” 

‘ ‘ Mother, ’ ’ cried Mildred, ‘ ‘ if you have a grain of reason 
or self-control left, close your lips. Oh, what a mockery it 
all is !” 

When Belle took her astonished eyes from Mildred’s face, 
Roger, who stood near the door, was gone. 

44 You had better follow your daughter’s advice, Mrs. 
Jocelyn,” said the physician quietly and soothingly, “you 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS. 


337 


are a little feverish, and I prescribe quiet May I see you 
alone a moment or two, Mr. Jocelyn ?” 

“ Yes, here in my room,” added Mildred eagerly. 

It was with the aspect of mingled fear and haughtiness 
that Mr. Jocelyn followed Dr. Benton into the apartment, 
and the door was closed. 

“ Mother, you are ill,” said Mildred, kneeling beside her. 
“ For my sake, for yours, pray keep quiet for a while.” 

“ 111 ! I never felt better in my life. It's all your un- 
reasonable prejudice, Millie.” 

“ I think so too,” cried Belle indignantly. “ We were 
just beginning to have a little sunshine, and you have spoiled 
everything. ' ’ 

‘‘lam the only one who knows the truth, and I shall take 
the responsibility of directing our affairs for the next few 
hours,” replied Mildred, rising, with a pale, impassive face. 
“ Belle, my course has nothing to do with Roger Atwood. I 
exceedingly regret, however, that he has been present. Wait 
till you hear what Dr. Benton says ;” and there was something 
so resolute and almost stern in her manner that even Mrs. 
Jocelyn, in her unnatural exaltation, yielded. Indeed, she 
was already becoming drowsy from the effects of the narcotic. 

“ You are not yourself, mamma. I'll explain all tO' 
morrow, ' ' the young girl added soothingly. 

“ Mr. Jocelyn,” said the physician, with quiet emphasis, 
“ you have injected morphia into your wife's arm.” 

“ I have not.” 

“ My dear sir, I understand your case thoroughly, and so 
do your wife and daughter, as far as they can understand 
my explanations. Now if you will cease your mad folly I 
can save you, I think ; that is, if you will submit yourself 
absolutely to my treatment.” 

1 ‘ You are talking riddles, sir. Our poverty does not war- 
rant any assumption on your part ' ' 


33 8 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


‘ * I know the insane and useless instinct of those in your 
condition to hide their weakness ; but can you not control 
it, and permit me as your friend and physician to help you ? 
I am seeking your interests, not my own. 

“ Curse you !” cried Mr. Jocelyn, in a burst of uncon- 
trollable anger, 4 4 if you had been my friend you would have 
let me die, but instead you have said things to my wife that 
have blasted me forever in her eyes. If she had not known, I 
could have made the effort you require ; but now I’m a lost 
man, damned beyond remedy, and I'd rather see the devil 
himself than your face again. These are my rooms, and I 
demand that you depart and never appear here again. 

The physician bowed coldly, and left the ill-fated family to 
itself. 

Mildred, who overheard her father’s concluding words, 
felt that it would be useless then to interpose. Indeed she 
was so dispirited and exhausted that she could do no more 
than stagger under the heavy burden that seemed crushing 
her very soul. 

She assisted her mother to retire, and the latter was soon 
sleeping with a smile upon her lips. Mr. Jocelyn sat sul- 
lenly apart, staring out into the bleak, stormy darkness, 
and Mildred left him lor the first time in her life with- 
out giving him his good-night kiss. As she realized this 
truth, she sank on her couch and sobbed so bitterly that 
Belle, who had been meditating reproaches, looked at her 
with tearful wonder. Suddenly Mildred arose in strong 
compunction, and rushed back to her father ; but he started 
up with such a desperate look that she recoiled. 

“ Don’t touch me,” he cried. “ Put your lips to the 
gutter of the streets, if you will, but not to such pitch and 
foulness as I have become. ’ ’ 

44 Oh, papa, have mercy !” she pleaded. 

“Mercy!” he repeated, with a laugh that froze her 


AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS . 


339 


blood, “ there is no mercy on earth nor in heaven/’ and he 
waved her away, and again turned his face to the outer dark- 
ness. 

“Millie, oh, Millie, what is the matter?" cried Belle, 
shocked at her sister’s horror-stricken face. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Belle, is there any good God ?’ ' 

“ Millie, I’m bewildered. What does it all mean ? The 
evening that began so brightly seems ending in tragedy." 

“ Yes, tragedy in bitter truth. Hope is murdered, life 
poisoned, hearts made to bleed from wounds that can never 
heal. Belle, papa loves opium better than he does you or 
me, better than his wife and little helpless children, better 
than heaven and his own soul. Would to God I had never 
lived to see this day !" 


34 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY 


N the following morning Mrs. Jocelyn was ill and much 



depressed from the reaction of the drug that had been 
given without her knowledge, and after learning all that had 
transpired she sank into an almost hopeless apathy. Mil- 
dred also was unable to rise, and Belle went to their respec- 
tive employers and obtained a leave of absence for a day or 
two, on the ground of illness in the family. Mrs. Wheaton 
now proved herself a discreet and very helpful friend, show- 
ing her interest by kindly deeds and not by embarrassing 
questions. Indeed she was so well aware of the nature of 
the affliction that overwhelmed the family that she was pos- 
sessed by the most dismal forebodings as well as the deepest 
sympathy. 

Mr. Jocelyn had departed at an early hour, leaving a note 
wherein he stated that he might be absent some days seeking 
employment in a neighboring city. He had felt that it 
would be impossible to meet his family immediately after the 
experiences of the previous day. Indeed he had gone away 
with the desperate resolve that he would break his habit or 
never return ; but alas for the resolves of an opium frlave ! 

Time dragged heavily on, the family living under a night- 
mare of anxiety, fear, and horrible conjectures. What 
might he not do ? What new phase of the tragedy would 
hereafter be developed ? 

Now that the busy season was over, the girls found that 
they could retain their position as saleswomen only by »c- 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


34i 

cephng whatever their employers chose to pay, and the thrifty 
shopkeepers satisfied their consciences with the thought that 
they could obtain scores of others at even lower prices. Mr. 
Schriven, in the multiplicity of other interests, had almost 
forgotten Belle, and she had become in his mind merely a 
part of the establishment. Her dejected face and subdued 
manner excited some remark among her companions when 
She again appeared, but her explanation, ‘ ‘ Mother is ill, ’ ' 
quieted all curiosity. 

For a few days Mildred looked as white and crushed as a 
broken lily, and then the reserve strength and courage of the 
girl began to reassert themselves. With a fortitude that was 
as heroic as it was simple and unostentatious, she resolutely 
faced the truth and resolved to do each day’s duty, leaving 
the result in God’s hands. With a miser’s care she hus- 
banded her strength, ate the most nourishing food they could 
afford, and rested every moment her duties permitted. The 
economy they were now compelled to practise amounted 
almost to daily privation. Belle and the children were often 
a little petulant over this change, Mrs. Jocelyn apathetic, but 
Mildred was inflexible. “ We must not run in debt one 
penny,” she would often remark with compressed lips. 

Although frequently unoccupied at the shop, she was 
nevertheless compelled to stand, and in spite of this cruel re- 
quirement she rallied slowly. Thanks, however, to her wise 
carefulness, she did gain steadily in her power to endure and 
to fight the hard battle of life. 

One of the saddest features of their trouble was the 
necessity of reticence and of suffering in silence. Their 
proud, sensitive spirits did not permit them to speak of their 
shame even to Mrs. Wheaton, and she respected their re- 
serve. Indeed, among themselves they shrank from men- 
tioning the sorrrow that oppressed every waking moment and 
filled their dreams with woeful imagery. 


342 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


During an absence of nearly two weeks Mr. Jocelyn occa- 
sionally wrote a line, saying that he was as well as they could 
expect, and that was all. Then he reappeared among them 
and began leading a desultory kind of life, coming and going 
in an aimless way, and giving but little account of himself. 
They saw with a deeper depression that he had not improved 
much, although apparently he had avoided any great ex- 
cesses. Occasionally he gave Mildred a little money, but 
how it was obtained she did not know. It was well he was 
reticent, for had she known that it was often part of a small 
loan from some half-pitying friend of former days, and that 
it would never be repaid, she would not have used a penny 
of it. They were simply compelled to recognize the awful 
truth, that the husband and father was apparently a confirmed 
opium inebriate. At first they pleaded with him again and 
again, unable to understand how it was possible for him to 
continue in so fatal a course, but at last they despairingly 
desisted. He would at times weep almost hysterically, over- 
whelmed with remorse, and again storm in reckless anger 
and unreasoning fury* As in thousands of other homes 
wherein manhood and honor have been destroyed, they 
found no better resource than silent endurance. Under such 
inflictions resignation is impossible. For Mrs. Jocelyn and 
Mildred it was simply a daily martyrdom, but in her 
companionship with Roger, Belle had much to sustain, 
cheer, and even brighten her life. 

He was in truth a loyal friend, and daily racked his brain 
for opportunities to show her and Mrs. Jocelyn some reassur- 
ing attention ; and his kindness and that of Mrs. Wheaton 
were about the only glints of light upon their darkening way. 
Mildred was polite and even kind in her manner toward the 
young man, since for Belle’s sake and her mother’s she felt 
that she must be so. His course, moreover, had compelled 
her respect ; but nevertheless her shrinking aversion did not 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


343 


diminish. The fact that an evil destiny had seemingly de- 
stroyed her hope of ever looking into the face of Vinton 
Arnold again made the revolt of her heart all the more bitter 
against an unwelcome love of which she was ever conscious 
when Roger was present. But he had won her entire re- 
spect ; he knew so much, and he worked on and waited. 
The grasp of his mind upon his studies daily grew more 
masterful, and his industry and persistence were so steady 
that the old commission merchant began to nod to himself 
approvingly. 

The current of time flowed sluggishly on, bringing only 
changes for the worse to the Jocelyns. Early spring had 
come, but no spring-tide hope, and in its stead a bitter 
humiliation. The pressure of poverty at last became so 
great that the Jocelyns were in arrears for rent and were com- 
pelled to move. In this painful ordeal Mrs. Wheaton was a 
tower of strength, and managed almost everything for them, 
since no dependence could be placed on Mr. Jocelyn. The 
reader’s attention need not be detained by a description of 
their new shelter — for it could not be called a home. They 
had a living-room and two very small bedrooms in a brick 
tenement wedged in among others of like unredeemed angu- 
larity, and belonging to the semi-respectable, commonplace 
order. It was occupied by stolid working-people of various 
nationalities, and all engaged in an honest scramble for bread, 
with time and thought for little else. The house was sim- 
ply a modern, cheap shelter, built barely within the require- 
ments of the law, and, from its newness, unsoiled as yet with 
the grime of innumerable crowded families. Everything 
was slight, thin, and money-saving in the architecture ; and 
if a child cried, a shrill- tongued woman vociferated, or a 
laborer, angry or drunk, indulged in the general habit of 
profanity, all the other inmates of the abode were at once 
aware of the fact. By the majority, such sounds were no 


34 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


more heeded than the rumble in the streets, but to poor 
Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred, with natures like -Eolian harps, 
the discords of such coarse, crowded life were often horrible. 
There was naught to do but exist from day to day, to win 
what bread they could wherewith to sustain a life that seemed 
to promise less and less. Mr. Jocelyn was steadily sinking, 
and Belle, at last, growing bitter and restless under the priva- 
tions of her lot, in spite of Roger’s unfaltering friendship. 

Mr. Jocelyn was not one who could sin in a conservative, 
prudent way. He seemed utterly unable to rally and be a 
man in his own strength, and his remorse over his conduct 
was so great that he sought a refuge in almost continuous 
excess. The greater the height, the more tremendous the 
fall, and he had now reached the recklessness of despair. 
He had many stolid, slouching neighbors in the tenements, 
who permitted life to be at least endurable for their families 
because of the intervals between their excesses ; but an in- 
terval to Mr. Jocelyn was a foretaste of perdition. Never- 
theless, if the wretched man, by a kindly violence, could 
have been shut up and away for weeks, perhaps months, 
from all possibility of obtaining the poisons that were destroy- 
ing him, and treated with scientific skill, he might have been 
saved even at this late hour. When the world recognizes that 
certain vices sooner or later pass from the character of volun- 
tary evil into the phase of involuntary disease, and should 
be treated rigorously and radically under the latter aspect, 
many lives and homes will be saved from final wreck. 

No principles are better known than the influences of soil, 
climate, darkness, and light upon a growing plant. If the 
truth could be appreciated that circumstances color life and 
character just as surely, marring, distorting, dwarfing, or 
beautifying and developing, according as they are friendly Oi 
adverse, the workers in the moral vineyard, instead of trying 
to obtain fruit from sickly vines, whose roots grope in 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


345 


sterility, and whose foliage is poisoned, would bring the rich- 
ness of opportunity to the soil and purify the social atmos- 
phere. Immature Belle, in spite of all the influences for 
good from her mother, her sister, and Roger, could scarcely 
reside where she did and grow pure and womanly. She was 
daily compelled to see and hear too much that was coarse, 
evil, and debasing. 

She knew that Roger was a friend, and nothing more — that 
his whole heart was absorbed in Mildred — and her feminine 
nature, stimulated by the peculiarities of her lot, craved 
warmer attentions. In her impoverished condition, and with 
her father's character becoming generally known, such atten- 
tions would not naturally come from young men whom those 
who loved her best could welcome. She was growing restless 
under restrictions, and her crowded, half-sheltered life was 
robbing her of womanly reserve. These undermining influ- 
ences worked slowly, imperceptibly, but none the less cer- 
tainly, and she recognized the bold, evil admiration which 
followed her more and more unshrinkingly. 

Mr. Jocelyn’s condition was no longer a secret, and he 
often, in common with other confirmed habitues, increased 
the effects of opium by a free use of liquor. He therefore 
had practically ceased to be a protector to his daughters. 
Fred and Minnie, in spite of all the broken-hearted and fail- 
ing mother could do, were becoming little street Arabs, 
learning all too soon the evil of the world. 

Since the revelation of her father’s condition Mildred had 
finally relinquished her class at the mission chapel. Her 
sensitive spirit was so shadowed by his evil that she felt she 
would be speechless before children who might soon learn to 
associate her name with a vice that would seem to them as 
horrible as it was mysterious. Bread and shelter she must 
obtain, but she was too fear-haunted, too conscious of the 


34 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


shame to which she was linked, to face the public on any 
occasion not Connected with her daily toil. 

The pride characteristic of American people who have 
lapsed from a better condition was intensified by her South- 
ern birth and prejudices. More than hunger, cold, and even 
death, she feared being recognized, pointed out, stared at, and 
gossiped about, while the thought of receiving charity 
brought an almost desperate look into her usually clear blue 
eyes. Therefore she shrank from even Mr. Wentworth, and 
was reticent on all topics relating to their domestic affairs. 
She knew that there were many families whom he was almost 
sustaining through crises of illness and privation ; she also 
knew that there were far more who sought to trade upon his 
sympathies. While she could take aid from him as readily 
as from any one, she also believed that before she could re- 
ceive it she must be frank concerning her father. Rather 
than talk of his shame, even to her pastor, it might well be 
believed that the girl would starve. What she might do for 
the sake of the others was another question. 

Mr. Wentworth in sadness recognized the barrier which 
Mildred’s pride was rearing between them, but he was too 
wise and experienced to be obtrusively personal. He sought 
earnestly, however, to guard the young girl against the moral 
danger which so often results from discouragement and un- 
happiness, and he entreated her not to part with her faith, 
her clinging trust in God. 

“ A clinging trust is, indeed, all that I have left,” she had 
replied so sadly that his eyes suddenly moistened ; ‘ ‘ but the 
waves of trouble seem strong and pitiless, and I sometimes 
fear that my hands are growing numb and powerless. In 
plain prose, I’m just plodding on — God knows whither. In 
my weary, faltering way I am trying to trust Him,” she 
added, after a brief silence, “ and I always hope to ; but I 
am so tired, Mr. Wentworth, so depressed, that I’m like the 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


347 


soldiers that have been described to me as marching on with 
heavy eyes and heavy feet because they must. There is no 
use in my coming to the chapel, for I haven’ t the heart to 
say a word of cheer to any one, and hollow words would 
hurt me, while doing no good. I am trying your charity 
sorely, but I can’t help it. I fear you cannot understand 
me, for even your Christian sympathy is a burden. I’m too 
tired, too sorely wounded to make any response ; while all 
the time I feel that I ought to respond gratefully and ear- 
nestly. It seems a harsh and unnatural thing to say, but my 
chief wish is to shrink away from everybody and everything 
not essential to my daily work. I think I shall have strength 
enough to keep up a mechanical routine of life for a long 
time, but you must not ask me to think or give way to feel- 
ing, much less to talk about myself and — and — the others. 
If I should lose this stolid self-control which I am gaining, 
and which enables me to plod along day by day with my 
eyes shut to what may be on the morrow, I believe I should 
become helpless from despair and grief. 

“ My dear child,” the clergyman had replied, in deep 
solicitude, “ I fear you are dangerously morbid ; and yet I 
don’t know. This approach to apathy of which you speak 
may be God’s shield from thoughts that would be sharp 
arrows. I can’t help my honest sympathy, and I hope and 
trust that I may soon be able to show it in some helpful way 
— I mean in the way of finding you more remunerative and 
less cruel work, ’ ’ he added quickly, as he saw a faint flush 
rising in the young girl’s face. Then he concluded, gravely 
and gently, “Miss Mildred, I respect you — I respect even 
your pride ; but, in the name of our common faith and the 
bonds it implies, do not carry it too far. Good-by. Come 
to me whenever you need, or your conscience suggests my 
name, ’ ’ and the good man went away wholly bent on obtain- 
ing some better employment £or Mildred ; and he made not 


34^ 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


a little effort to do so, only to find every avenue of labor 
suited to the girl’s capacity already thronged. Meanwhile 
the needs and sorrows of others absorbed his time and 
thoughts. 

Belle, because of her thorough liking and respect for Mr. 
Wentworth, and even more for the reason that he had ob- 
tained her promise to come, was rarely absent from her class, 
and the hour spent at the chapel undoubtedly had a good 
and restraining influence ; but over and against this one oi 
two hours in seven days were pitted the moral atmosphere o f 
the shop, the bold admiration and advances in the streets, 
which were no longer unheeded and were scarcely resented, 
and the demoralizing sights and sounds of a tenement-house. 
The odds were too great for poor Belle. Like thousands of 
other girls, she stood in peculiar need of sheltered home life, 
and charity broad as heaven should be exercised toward those 
exposed as she was. 

As Mr. Jocelyn sank deeper in degradation, Mildred’s 
morbid impulse to shrink, cower, and hide, in such poor shel- 
ter as she had, grew stronger, and at last she did little more 
than try to sleep through the long, dreary Sabbaths, that she 
might have strength for the almost hopeless struggle of the 
week. She was unconsciously drifting into a hard, apathetic 
materialism, in which it was her chief effort not to think or 
remember — from the future she recoiled in terror — but sim- 
ply to try to maintain her physical power to meet the dailt 
strain. 

It is a sad and terrible characteristic of our Christian city, 
that girls, young, beautiful, and unprotected like Mildred and 
Belle, are the natural prey of remorseless huntsmen. Only 
a resolute integrity, great prudence and care, can shield 
them ; and these not from temptation and evil pursuit, but 
only from the fall which such snares too often compass. 

Of these truths Mildred had a terrible proof. A purer- 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


349 


hearted girl than she never entered the maelstrom of city 
life ; but those who looked u-pon her lovely face looked 
again, and lingeringly, and there was one who had devoured 
her beauty daily with wolfish eyes. In charge of the de- 
partment of the shop wherein she toiled, there was a man 
who had long since parted with the faintest trace of principle 
or conscience. He was plausible, fine-looking, after a cer- 
tain half-feminine type, and apparently vigilant and faithful 
in his duties as a floor- walker ; but his spotless linen con- 
cealed a heart that plotted all the evil his hands dared to 
commit For him Mildred had possessed great attractions 
from the first ; and, with the confidence bestowed by his 
power, and many questionable successes, he made his first 
advances so openly that he received more than one public 
and stinging rebuff. A desire for revenge, therefore, had 
taken entire possession of him, and with a serpent’s cold, 
deadly patience he was waiting for a chance to uncoil and 
strike. Notwithstanding his outward civility, Mildred never 
met the expression of his eyes without a shudder. 

From frank-tongued Belle, Roger had obtained some hints 
of this man’s earlier attentions, and of his present ill-concealed 
dislike — a latent hostility which gave Mildred no little un- 
easiness, since, by some pretext, he might cause her dis- 
missal. She knew too well that they were in such straits 
now that they could not afford one hour’s idleness. Roger 
therefore nursed a bitter antipathy against the fellow. 

One evening, late in March, the former was taking his 
usual brief walk before sitting down to long hours of study. 
He was at liberty to go whither he pleased, and not un- 
naturally his steps, for the hundredth time, perhaps, passed 
the door through which he could catch a glimpse of the 
young girl, who, with apparent hopelessness, and yet with 
such pathetic patience, was fighting a long battle with dis- 
heartening adversity. He was later than usual, and the em* 


35 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


ploy£s were beginning to leave. Suddenly the obnoxious 
floor-walker appeared at the entrance with a hurried and in- 
tent manner. Then he paused a second or two and con- 
cealed himself behind a show-case. Roger now saw that his 
eyes were fixed on a girl who had just preceded him, and 
who, after a furtive glance backward, hastened up the ave- 
nue. Her pursuer — for such he evidently was— followed 
instantly, and yet sought to lose himself in the crowd so that 
she could not detect him. Partly in the hope of learning 
something to the disadvantage of one who might have it in 
his power to injure Mildred, and partly from the motive of 
adding zest to an aimless walk, Roger followed the man 
The girl, with another quick glance over her shoulder, at 
last turned down a side street, and was soon walking alone 
where passengers were few and the street much in shadow ; 
here her pursuer joined her, and she soon evinced violent 
agitation, stopping suddenly with a gesture of indignant pro- 
test. He said something, however, that subdued her speed- 
ily, and they went on together for some little distance, the 
man talking rapidly, and then they turned into a long, dark 
passage that led to some tenements in the rear of those front- 
ing on the street. About midway in this narrow alley a 
single gas-jet burned, and under its' light Roger saw them 
stop, and the girl produce from beneath her waterproof cloak 
something white, that appeared like pieces of wound lace. 
The man examined them, made a memorandum, and then 
handed them back to the girl, who hesitated to take them ; 
but his manner was so threatening and imperious that she 
again concealed them on her person. As they came out 
together, Roger, with hat drawn over his eyes, gave them a 
glance which fixed the malign features of the man and the 
frightened, guilty visage of the girl on his memory. TV*y 
regarded him suspiciously, but, as he went on without look- 
ing back, they evidently thought him a casual passer-by. 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 


35 * 


*' It’s a piece of villainy/' Roger muttered, “ but of what 
nature I have no means of discovering, even were it any 
affair of mine. I am satisfied of one thing, however — that 
man’s a scoundrel ; seemingly he has the girl in his power, 
and it looks as if she had been stealing goods and he is com- 
pounding the felony with her.” 

If he had realized the depth of the fellow’s villainy he 
would not have gone back to his studies so quietly, for the 
one nearest to his heart was its object The scene he had 
witnessed can soon be explained. Goods at the lace coun- 
ter had been missed on more than one occasion, and it had 
been the hope of Mildred's enemy that he might fasten the 
suspicion upon her. On this evening, however, he had seen 
the girl in question secrete two or three pieces as she was 
folding them up, and he believed she had carried them away 
with her. Immediately on joining her he had charged hex 
with the theft, and in answer to her denials threatened to 
have her searched before they parted. Then in terror she 
admitted the fact, and was in a condition to become his un- 
willing accomplice in the diabolical scheme suggested by 
his discovery. 

He had said to her, in effect, that he suspected another 
girl — namely, Mildred Jocelyn — and that if she would place 
the goods in the pocket of this girl’s cloak on the following 
afternoon he would by this act be enabled to extort a confes- 
sion from her also, such as he had received in the present case. 
He then promised the girl in return for this service that he 
would make no complaint against her, but would give her the 
chance to find another situation, which she must do speedily, 
since he could no longer permit her to remain in the employ 
of the house for whom he acted. She was extremely reluc- 
tant to enter into this scheme, but, in her confusion, guilt, 
and fear, made the evil promise, finding from bitter experi- 
ence that one sin, like an enemy within the walls, opens the 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


35 2 

gate to many others. She tried to satisfy such conscience as 
she had with the thought that Mildred was no better than 
herself, and that the worst which could happen to the object 
of this sudden conspiracy was a quiet warning to seek em- 
ployment elsewhere. The man himself promised as much, 
although he had no such mild measures in view. It was his 
design to shame Mildred publicly, to break down her charac- 
ter, and render her desperate. He had learned that she had 
no protector worthy of the name, and believed that he could 
so adroitly play his part that he would appear only as the 
vigilant and faithful servant of his employers. 

Mildred, all unconscious of the pit dug beneath her feet, 
was passing out the following evening into the dreary March 
storm, when the foreman touched her shoulder and said that 
one of the proprietors wished to see her. In much surprise, 
and with only the fear of one whose position meant’ daily 
bread for herself and those she loved better than self, she 
followed the man to the private office, where she found two 
of the firm, and they looked grave and severe indeed. 

“ Miss Jocelyn,” began the elder, without any circumlocu- 
tion, ‘ ‘ laces have been missed from your department, and sus- 
picion rests on you. I hope you can prove yourself innocent. * ' 

The charge was so awful and unexpected that she sank, 
pale and faint, into a chair, and the appearance of the 
terror-stricken girl was taken as evidence of guilt. But she 
soon rallied sufficiently to say, with great earnestness, “ In- 
deed, sir, I am innocent.” 

“ Assertion is not proof. Of course you are willing, then, 
to be searched ?’ ' 

She, Mildred Jocelyn, searched for stolen goods ! 
Searched, alone, in the presence of these dark-browed, 
frowning men ! The act, the indignity, seemed overwhelm- 
ing. A hot crimson flush mantled her face, and hei 
womanhood rose in arms against the insult. 


A BLACK CONSPIRACY. 35 $ 

“ I do not fear being searched,” she said indignantly ; 
“ but a woman must perform the act.” 

“Certainly,” said her employer; “we do not propose 
anything indecorous ; but first call an officer. 

They were convinced that they had found the culprit, and 
were determined to make such an example of her as would 
deter all others in the shop from similar dishonesty. 

Mildred was left to herself a few moments, faint and be- 
wildered, a whirl of horrible thoughts passing through her 
mind ; and then, conscious of innocence, she began to grow 
calm, believing that the ordeal would soon be over. Never- 
theless she had received a shock which left her weak and 
trembling, as she followed two of the most trusty women 
employed in the shop to a private apartment, at whose door 
she saw a bulky guardian of the law. The majority, un- 
aware of what had taken place, had departed ; but such as 
remained had lingered, looking in wonder at the hasty ap- 
pearance of the policeman, and the intense curiosity had 
been heightened when they saw him stationed near an en- 
trance through which Mildred was speedily led. They at 
once surmised the truth, and waited for the result of the 
search in almost breathless expectation. The girl who had 
done Mildred so deep a wrong had hastened away among the 
first, and so was unaware of what was taking place ; the chief 
conspirator, from an obscure part in the now half-lighted 
shop, watched with cruel eyes the working of his plot 


354 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 

OT from any sense of guilt, but rather from the trem- 



bling apprehensiveness of one whose spirit is already 
half broken by undeserved misfortune, Mildred tottered to a 
chair within the small apartment to which she had been 
taken. With an appealing glance to the two women who 
stood beside her she said, “ Oh, hasten to prove that I am 
innocent ! My burden was already too heavy, and this is 
horrible. ' ' 

“ Miss Jocelyn," replied the elder of the women, in a 
matter-of-fact tone, “ it’s our duty to search you thoroughly, 
and, if innocent, you will not fear it There will be noth- 
ing ‘ horrible ’ about the affair at all, unless you have been 
stealing, and it seems to me that an honest girl would show 
more nerve. ’ ’ 

“ Search me, then — search as thoroughly as you please,” 
cried Mildred, with an indignant flush crimsoning her pale, 
wan face. “I’d sooner starve a thousand times than take 
a penny that did not belong to me.” 

Grimly and silently, and with a half-incredulous shrug, 
the woman, whose mind had been poisoned against Mildred, 
began her search, first taking off the young girl’s waterproof 
cloak. “ Why is the bottom of this side-pocket slit open ?” 
she asked severely. ‘ ‘ What is this, away down between the 
lining and the cloth ?’ ’ and she drew out two pieces of vai- 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 


355 


Mildred looked at the ominous wares with dilated eyes, 
and for a moment was speechless with astonishment and 
terror. 

“ Your words and deeds are a trifle discordant,” began 
the woman, in cold satire, “ but your manner is more in 
keeping.” 

“ I know nothing about that lace,” Mildred exclaimed 
passionately. ‘ ‘ This is a plot against — ’ ’ 

“ Oh, nonsense !” interrupted the woman harshly. 
“ Here, officer,” she continued, opening the door, “ take 
your prisoner. These goods were found upon her person, 
concealed within the limng of her cloak,” and she showed 
him where the lace had been discovered. 

‘ ‘ A mighty clear case, ’ ’ was his grinning reply ; ‘ * still 
you must be ready to testify to-morrow, unless the girl pleads 
guilty, which will be her best course. ’ ’ 

“ What are you going to do with me ?” asked Mildred, 
in a hoarse whisper. 

“ Oh, nothing uncommon, miss — only what is always 
done under such circumstances. We’ll give you free lodg- 
ings to-night, and time to think a bit over your evil ways.” 

One of the seniors of the firm, who had drawn near to the 
door and had heard the result of the search, now said, with 
much indignation, and in a tone that all present could hear, 
“ Officer, remove your prisoner, and show no leniency. 
Let the law take its full course, for we intend to stamp out 
all dishonesty from our establishment, most thoroughly.” 

* ‘ Come, ’ ’ said the policeman, roughly laying his hand on 
the shoulder of the almost paralyzed girl. 

‘ ‘ Where V ’ she gasped. 

‘‘Why, to the station-house, of course,” he answered 
impatiently. 

‘ Oh, you can’t mean that.” 

“ Come, come, no nonsense, no airs. You knew well 


35 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


enough that the station-house and jail were at the end of the 
road you were travelling. People always get found out. 
sooner or later. If you make me trouble in arresting you, 
it will go all the harder with you. 

“ Can’t I — can’t I send word to my friends?” 

“ No, indeed, not now. Your pals must appear in court 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

She looked appealingly around, and on every face within 
the circle of light saw only aversion and anger, while the 
cruel, mocking eyes of the man whose coarse advances she 
had so stingingly resented were almost fiendish in their ex- 
ultation. 

“ It’s of no use,’ she muttered bitterly. “ It seems as 
if all the world, and God Himself, were against me,” and 
giving way to a despairing apathy she followed the officer 
out of the store — out into the glaring lamplight of the street, 
out into the wild March storm that swept her along toward 
prison. To her morbid mind the sleet-laden gale seemed in 
league with all the other malign influences that were hurry- 
ing her on to shame and ruin. 

“ Hi, there ! Look where you are going, ” thundered the 
policeman to a passenger who was breasting the storm, with his 
umbrella pointed at an angle that threatened the officer’s eye. 

The umbrella was thrown back, and then flew away on 
the gale from the nerveless hands of Roger Atwood. Dumb 
and paralyzed with wonder, he impeded their progress a 
moment as he looked into Mildred’s white face. 

At last a time had come when she welcomed his presence, 
and she cried, “ Oh, Mr. Atwood, tell them at home — tell 
them I’m innocent.” 

“ What does this outrage mean ?” he demanded, in a tone 
that caused the officer to grasp his club tightly. 

“ It means that if you interfere by another word I’ll 
arrest you also. Move on, and mind your business, ” 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 


357 


“ Miss Jocelyn, explain,” he said earnestly to her, with 
out budging an inch, and the comparatively few passers-by 
began to gather around them. 

“You can have no communication with the prisoner on 
the street, ’ ' said the arm of the law roughly ; ‘ ‘ and if you 
don’ t get out of my way you’ 11 be sorry. ' ’ 

“ Please don’t draw attention to me,” entreated Mildred 
hurriedly. “You can do nothing. I' m falsely accused — 
tell them at home. ’ ’ 

He passed swiftly on her side, and, as he did so, whis- 
pered, “You shall not be left alone a moment. I’ll fol- 
low, and to-morrow prove you innocent,” for, like a flash, the 
scene he had witnessed the evening before came into his mind. 

“Quit that,” warned the officer, “or I’ll — ” but the 
young man was gone. He soon turned, however, and fol- 
lowed until he saw Mildred led within the station-house 
door. The storm was so severe as to master the curiosity of 
the incipient crowd, and only a few street gamins followed 
his example. He was wary now, and, having regained his 
self-control, he recognized a task that would tax his best skill 
and tact. 

Having watched until he saw the officer who had made the 
arrest depart, he entered the station-house. To the sergeant 
on duty behind the long desk he said, with much courtesy, 
“I am a friend of Miss Jocelyn, a young woman recently 
brought to this station. I wish to do nothing contrary to 
your rules, but I would like to communicate with her and do 
what I can for her comfort. Will you please explain to me 
what privileges may be granted to the prisoner and to her 
friends V * 

“ Well, this is a serious case, and the proof against her is 
almost positive. The stolen goods were found upon her per- 
son, and her employers have charged that there be no 
leniency. 


3S« 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Her employers could not have wished her treated 
cruelly, and if they did, you are not the man to carry out 
their wishes, ’ ’ Roger insinuated. ‘ ‘ All that her friends ask 
is kindness and fair play within the limits of your rules. 
Moreover, her friends have information which will show her 
to be innocent, and let me assure you that she is a lady by 
birth and breeding, although the family has been reduced to 
poverty. She has influential friends.” 

His words evidently had weight with the sergeant, and 
Roger’s bearing was so gentlemanly that the official imagined 
that the young man himself might represent no mean degree 
of social and political influence. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I noticed that she wasn’t one of the 
common sort.” 

‘ ‘ And you must have observed also that she was delicate 
and frail looking.” 

“ Yes, that, too, was apparent, and we have every dis- 
position to be humane toward prisoners. You can send her 
some supper and bedding, and if you wish to write to her 
you can do so, but must submit what you write to the cap- 
tain of the precinct. I’m expecting him every minute.” 

Roger wrote rapidly : 

“ Miss Jocelyn : Your friends fully believe in your inno* 
cence, and I think I can say without doubt that they have 
the means of proving it. Much depends on your maintain- 
ing strength and courage. Bedding will be sent to make 
you comfortable, and, for the sake of your mother and 
those you love at home, I hope you will not refuse the sup- 
per that shall soon be sent also. I have ever believed that 
you were the bravest girl in the world, and now that so much 
depends on your fortitude and nerve, I am sure you will 
second the efforts of those who are trying to aid you. With 
the strongest respect and sympathy, 


“ Roger Atwood/' 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 


359 


The captain, who soon appeared, saw no objection to this 
note, and promised that it should be sent to Mildred. 

Roger then went to the nearest restaurant, and procured a 
delicate and inviting supper, which, with a generous pot of 
coffee, he carried so swiftly through the storm that it was sent 
smoking hot to the cell in which Mildred was confined. 

He then hastened to a livery-stable, and, having obtained 
a carriage, was driven rapidly to the tenement in which the 
Jocelyns had their rooms. Mr. Jocelyn, fortunately, was 
absent ; for Mildred’s natural protector would only have 
made matters far worse. If the guardians of the law had 
looked upon the wrecked and fallen man they would have 
felt that the daughter’s alleged crime was already half ex- 
plained. But a visit from Mrs. Jocelyn would make a far 
different impression, and he determined that she alone 
should accompany him to the station-house. 

It would be useless to pain the reader with Mrs. Jocelyn’s 
distress, and for a time Roger thought the tidings would 
crush the already stricken woman ; but in answer to his 
appeal . she soon rallied in defence of her child. At his 
request she assumed, as far as possible, the garb of a lady — 
the appearance and bearing of one was inseparable from her. 
It was with much difficulty that he persuaded the weeping 
and indignant Belle to remain with the children, for he well 
knew that she was far too excitable to deal with the police. 
Having made eveiy provision possible for Mildred’s com- 
fort, they soon reached the station-house, and the sergeant 
in charge greeted them politely ; but on learning their errand 
he frowned, and said to Mrs. Jocelyn, “ No, you can’t see hei 
till she is brought into court to-morrow.” 

In answer to the mother’s appeals and Roger’s expostula- 
tions he remarked impatiently, “ Do you think I’m going 
to disobey orders ? Either take my answer or wait till the 
captain comes in again.” 


3^0 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


They had no other resource, and sat down to weary wait- 
ing, the mother weeping silently, and Roger, with sternly 
knit brows, deep in thought. 

At last the captain returned, and the sergeant rose and 
said, “ Here’s the mother of the girl who was taken with 
stolen goods on her person. She wishes to speak with you. 

“ Well, what is it?” demanded the police-captain a little 
harshly, turning toward Mrs. Jocelyn ; but his manner soft- 
ened as he looked upon the thin, delicate features which had 
not yet lost their old, sweet charm, and which now were 
eloquent with a mother’s unspeakable grief and solicitude. 
“ Don’t be frightened, madam,” he added, somewhat 
Kindly, as he saw the poor woman’s ineffectual efforts to rise 
and speak. “ I’m human, and not more hard-hearted than 
my duties require. ’ ’ 

At last Mrs. Jocelyn burst forth : “If you have a heart at 
all, sir, save mine from breaking. My child is innocent — it 
will be proved to-morrow. A year ago we had a happy, 
beautiful home, and my girl a father whom all men respected. 
We’ve had misfortunes, that, thank God, fall to the lot of 
few, but my child has kept herself spotless through them all. 
I can prove this. She is in prison to-night through no fault 
of hers. Oh, sir, in the name of mother-love, can you keep 
me from my child ? Can I not see her even for a moment, 
and say to her one reassuring word ? She may go mad from 
fear and shame. She may die. Oh, sir, if you have the 
heart of a man, let me see her, let me speak to her. You, 
or any one, may be present and see that I mean no harm. ’ * 

“ There certainly has been some dreadful mistake,” 
Roger put in hastily, as he saw that the man was irresolute, 
and was regarding the suppliant sympathetically. “ People 
who must command your respect will be glad to testify that 
Miss Jocelyn’s character is such as to render impossible any- 
thing dishonorable on her part. ’ ' 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 


361 


“ Let me warn you,” said the officer keenly, “ that any 
such negative testimony will have but little weight against the 
positive facts in the case. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, let me see my child,” cried Mrs. Jocelyn, in tones 
of such passionate pathos that his scruples gave way, and he 
said to the sergeant, “ Let her see the girl ! I’d be a brute 
to deny her, even if it is against our rules. The doorman 
need not stand near enough to embarrass them.” 

As Mrs. Jocelyn eagerly descended to the cells in the base- 
ment, the captain remarked to Roger, “ The girl’s friends 
will have to bestir themselves if they clear her. The evi- 
dence is so strong that she’ 11 be committed for further trial, 
without doubt.” 

“ I think she’ll be discharged to-morrow,” replied Rogei 
quietly. “ I thank you for your kindness to Mrs. Jocelyn.” 

“ Mere statements as to the girl’s previous character will 
not clear her,” resumed the captain emphatically. ‘‘You 
are a relative, lover, or something, I suppose. This pool 
woman has knocked my routine methods a little out of gear. 
One rarely sees a face like hers in a station-house. She evi- 
dently comes of no common stock, and I’d like to hear that 
the charge is all a mistake, as you claim ; but, young man, 
you can’t meet criminal charges with generalities. You’ve 
got to show that she didn’ t steal that lace. I wish you suc- 
cess, for the mother’ s sake at least, ’ ’ and he passed into his 
private room. 

As Mildred was about to enter the station-house she had 
looked back, hoping, for the first time in her life, that Roger 
Atwood was near. The eager and reassuring wave of his 
hand satisfied her that he would know the place of her im- 
prisonment, and that he would do for her all within his 
power. Again he had appeared in the hour of misfortune 
and bitter humiliation. But, in spite of her heart, she now 
did justice to his sturdy loyalty, and she was comforted and 


3 62 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


sustained by the thought that not quite all the world was 
against her. She also knew that he would relieve her mother 
and Belle from unendurable anxiety on account of her ab- 
sence, and that he would summon Mr. Wentworth to her 
aid. His promise to prove her innocent had meant nothing 
to her more than that he would inform and rally all of her 
friends. That he could know anything that would throw 
light on the evil mystery did not seem possible. She was 
then too miserable and depressed to do much more than wait, 
in a sort of stunned torpor, for what might next occur. 
Mechanically she answered such questions as were put to her 
in order that a record of the case might be made, and then 
was led to the cells below. She shuddered as she saw the 
dimly lighted ctairway, and it seemed to her morbid fancy 
that she was to be thrust into a subterranean dungeon. 
Such, in a certain sense, it was ; for in some of the older 
station-houses the cells are located in the basement At the 
end of the corridor, nearest the street, she saw several women, 
and, unkempt and disgusting as these station-house tramps 
appeared, the fact that some of her own sex were near was re- 
assuring. A prison was to her a place full of nameless hor- 
rors, for the romances she had read in brighter days gave to it 
the associations of mediaeval dungeons. Of the prosaic char- 
acter of a modern jail she knew nothing, and when she was 
placed within a bare cell, and the grated iron door was locked 
upon her, the horrible desolation of her position seemed as 
complete and tragic a fate as had ever overtaken the unfortu- 
nate in the cruel past. She sat down upon the grimy wooden 
bench, which was the only provision made for rest or com- 
fort, and the thought of spending a lonely night in such a 
place was overpowering. Not that she could hope for sleep, 
even if there were downy pillows instead of this unredeemed 
couch of plank on which some beastly inebriate may have 
llept off his stupor the night before, but she felt weak and 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 365 

faint, and her overtaxed physical nature craved some support 
and rest. 

Distress of mind, however, soon made her forget all this, 
as her faculties slowly rallied from the shock they had re- 
ceived, and she began to realize that she was charged with a 
crime of which it might be difficult — perhaps impossible — to 
prove her innocence. At best, she feared she would always 
be so clouded with suspicion that all would refuse to employ 
her, and that her blighted life and undeserved shame, added 
to her father’s character, would drag the family down to the 
lowest depths. The consequences to them all, and especially 
to Belle, seemed so threatening and terrible that she wrung 
her hands and moaned aloud. 

At every sound she started up, nervous and morbidly ap- 
prehensive. The grating of the key in the iron door had 
given her a sense of relief and refuge. The massive bars that 
shut her in also shut out the brutal and criminal, who were as- 
sociated with a prison in her mind ; the thoughts of whom had 
filled her very soul with terror, when she was first arrested. As 
k was early in the evening she happened to be the first pris- 
oner, and she prayed that there might be no others, for the 
possibility that some foul, drunken man might be thrust into 
an adjoining cell made her flesh creep. How many long, 
sleepless hours must pass before morning could bring any 
hope of release ! And yet she dreaded the coming day 
unspeakably, for her path to freedom lay through a police 
court, with all its horrible publicity. Her name might get 
into the papers, and proud Mrs. Arnold treasure up every scrap 
of such intelligence about her. The tidings of her shame 
might be sent to her who as Miss Wetheridge had been her 
friend, and even she would shrink from one around whom 
clung such disgraceful associations. Again and again she 
asked herself, How could the charge against her be met? 
How could the family live without her ? What would become 


3 6 4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


of them f Belle, alas, would be rendered utterly reckless, 
because hopeless. The unhappy prisoner was far beyond 
tears. Even her faith in God failed her, for, seemingly, He 
had left her the victim of cruel wrong and unredeemed mis- 
fortune. With her hot, dry eyes buried in her hands she sat 
motionless and despairing, and the moments passed like 
hours. 

At this crisis in her despair Roger s note was handed to 
her, and it was like the north star suddenly shining out on 
one who is benighted and lost. It again kindled hope, with- 
out which mind and body give way in fatal dejection. She 
kissed the missive passionately, murmuring, with eyes heaven- 
ward, “ If he can clear my name from dishonor, if he will 
rescue my loved ones from the poverty and shame which are 
now threatening such terrible evils, I will make any sacrifice 
that he can ask. I will crush out my old vain love, if I die 
in the effort. My heart shall not prove a traitor to those 
who are true and loyal at such a time. He can save 
mamma, Belle, and the children from hopeless poverty, and 
perhaps destruction. If he will, and it is his wish, I’ll give 
all there is left of my unhappy self. I will be his loyal wife 
— would to God I could be his loving wife ! Oh, would to 
God he had loved Belle instead of me ! I could be devo- 
tion itself as his sister. But surely I can banish my old 
fond dream — which was never more than a dream — when 
one so deserving, so faithful, is willing to give me his strong, 
helpful hand. We are both very young ; it will be years be- 
fore — before — and, surely, in so long a time, I can conquer 
my infatuation for one who has left me all these dreary 
months without a word. A woman’ s heart cannot be proof 
against reason, gratitude, and the sacred duty owed to those 
9he loves best. At any rate, mine shall not be, and if he 
still craves the loyalty and — and — yes, the love of one so 
shamed and impoverished as I am, he shall have all — all” 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL . 365 

and her face grew stem with her purpose of self-mastery. 
She forced down some of the food he sent, and drank the 
coffee. “ I will be brave,” she murmured. “ I will try to 
second his efforts to clear my name, for death were better 
chan shame. I shall, at least, try to deserve his respect.” 

Then musingly she added, “How can my friends have 
gained any information that would prove me innocent ? 
Mother and Belle cannot know anything definite, nor can 
Mr. Wentworth. He promised in that brief whisper when 
he passed me in the street that he would prove it. Can he 
have learned anything in his strange vigilance ? It seems 
impossible. Alas, I fear that their best hope is to show that 
I have hitherto borne a good character, and yet if my present 
home and our poverty are described, if — worse than all — 
papa appears in the court-room, I fear they will think the 
worst,” and something of her old despair began to return 
when she heard approaching footsteps. 

“ Millie !” cried a loved and familiar voice. The key grat- 
ed in the lock, and in another moment she was sobbing on 
her mother’s breast, and her bruised heart was healed by the 
unutterable tenderness of a mother’s love. It filled the dark 
cell with the abounding, undoubting, unquestioning spirit of 
unselfish devotion, which was akin to the fragrance diffused 
from the broken box of alabaster 

When sufficiently calm, Mildred told her mother what had 
happened, and she in turn whispered that Roger had strong 
hopes that he could prove her innocence on the following 
day, though how she did not know. “ And yet, Millie,” 
she concluded, “ for some reason he inspires me with confi- 
dence, for while he feels so deeply, he is quiet and thought- 
ful about the least thing. Nothing seems to escape his 
mind, and he says he has some information of which he does 
not think it best to speak at present. He entreats you to 
take courage, and says that if you will ‘ keep up and be your 


366 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


brave, true self, gentle and strong, ’ you can do much to aid 
him. We will all stand by you, and Mr. Wentworth will be 
with us.” 

4 * Where — where is papa ?’ ’ faltered Mildred, with a slight 
flush. 

“ I don’t know,” responded the wife, with a deep sob. 

“ Alas, mother, it’s cruel to say it, but it will be best that 
he should not appear at all. Keep him away if possible. I 
hope he may never know anything about it, unless you 
think this terrible result of his course may awaken him to a 
final struggle to do right. I would gladly suffer anything to 
save him.” 

“ No, Millie, he would not be his old self if he came into 
court,” said her mother dejectedly, 44 and his appearance 
and manner might turn the scale against you. Our best 
hope is to let Roger manage everything. And now, good- 
by, my darling. God sustain you. Do not fear anything 
to-night. Roger says you are safe, and that his only dread 
is that you may become nervously prostrated, and he relies 
on your help to-morrow. I can’t stay any longer. Oh, 
God, how glad I would be if I could hold you in my arms 
all night ! Belle is strongly excited, and says she will never 
believe a word against you, nor will any of your true friends 
— alas ! I wish we had more. ” 

‘ 4 Time is up, ’ ’ warned the doorman. 

44 Tell Mr. Atwood that I am deeply grateful for his aid, 
and more grateful for his trust,” said Mildred. 

44 Courage, Millie ; you can sustain me by keeping up 
yourself. You will find us in the court- room waiting for 
you. ’ ’ 

With an embrace in which heart throbbed against heart 
they separated, and the poor girl was comforted and more 
hopeful in spite of herself, for while she would shrink from 
Roger, her confidence in his shrewdness and intelligence had 


MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL. 


S 6 7 


made such growth that she half believed he would find some 
way of proving her innocent, although how he had obtained 
any evidence in her favor she could not imagine. The bed- 
ding brought by her mother transformed the cell-bunk into 
a comfortable couch, and she lay down and tried to rest, so 
as to be ready to do her part, and her overtaxed nature soon 
brought something like sleep. She was startled out of her 
half-consciousness by a shrill cry, and sprang to her feet 
There was a confused sound of steps on the stairs, and then 
again the same wild cry that almost made her heart stand 
still. A moment later two policemen appeared, dragging a 
woman, who was resisting and shrieking with demoniacal 
fury. 

The sight was a horrible one. The faces of the great, stal- 
wart men were reddened by exertion, for the woman seemed 
to possess supernatural strength, and their familiarity with 
crime was not so great as to prevent strong expressions of 
disgust. Little wonder, for if a fiend could embody itself in 
a woman, this demented creature would leave nothing for the 
imagination. Her dress was wet, torn, and bedraggled ; her 
long black hair hung dishevelled around a white, bloated 
face, from which her eyes gleamed with a fierceness like that 
of insanity. 

With no little difficulty they thrust her into a cell opposite 
the one in which Mildred was incarcerated, and as one of the 
men turned the key upon her he said roughly, “ Stay 
there now, you drunken she-devil, till you are sober/’ and 
breathing heavily from their efforts they left the poor wretch 
to the care of the jailer. 

Mildred shrank away. Not for the world would she en- 
counter the woman’s frenzied eyes. Then she stopped her 
ears, that she might not hear the horrid din and shameful 
language, which made the place tenfold more revolting. 
The man in charge of the cells sat dozing stolidly by the 


3*8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


stove, some distance away. His repose was not to be dis- 
turbed by such familiar sounds. 

At last the woman became quiet, and Mildred breathed 
more freely, until some mysterious sounds, suggesting that 
her terrible neighbor was trying to open her door, awakened 
her fears, for even the thought of her coming any nearer 
made her tremble. She therefore sprang up and looked be- 
tween the iron bars. At first she was perplexed by what she 
saw, and then her heart stood still, for she soon made out 
that the woman was hanging by the neck, from the highest 
bar of her cell door. “ Help,” Mildred shrieked ; “ quick, 
if you would save life.” 

The man by the stove sprang up and rushed forward. 

“ There, see — oh, be quick !” 

The jailer comprehended the situation at once, unlocked 
the door, and cut the parts of her clothing which the woman 
had improvised into a halter. She soon revived, and cursed 
him for his interference. He now watched her carefully, 
paying no heed to her horrible tongue, until the crazed stage 
of her intoxication passed into stupor. * To Mildred he said, 
reassuringly, “ Don’t be afraid ; you’re as safe as if you 
were at home. ' ' 

“ Home, home, home !” moaned the poor girl. “ Oh, 
what a mockery that word has become ! My best hope may 
soon be to find one in heaven. ’ ’ 

• The writer saw the cell in which, on the evening before, the 
woman described tried twice to destroy herself. He also saw 
the woman herself, when brought before the police justice. She 
had seen twenty-five years, but in evil she seemed old indeed 
According to her story, she was a daughter of the Puritans. 


“A WISE judge:* 


3 6 9 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“A WISE JUDGE/* 

W HEN the interminable night would end Mildred 
could not guess, for no dawning was visible from 
her basement cell. The woman opposite gradually became 
stupid and silent. Other prisoners were brought in from 
time to time, but they were comparatively quiet. A young 
girl was placed in a cell not far away, and her passionate 
weeping was pitiful to hear. The other prisoners were gen- 
erally intoxicated or stolidly indifferent, and were soon mak- 
ing the night hideous with their discordant respiration. 

The place had become so terrible to Mildred that she even 
welcomed the presence of the policeman who had arrested 
her, and who at last came to take her to the police court. 
Must she walk with him through the streets in the open light 
of day ? She feared she would faint on what, in her weak- 
ness, would be a long journey, and her heart gave a great 
throb of gratitude as she saw Roger awaiting her in the large 
general room, or entrance, to the station-house. Nor was 
her appreciation of his kindness diminished when she saw a 
man in attendance — evidently a waiter from a restaurant — 
with a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. Roger came 
forward, eagerly grasping her hand, and there was so much 
solicitude and sympathy in his dark eyes that her tears began 
to gather, and a faint color to suffuse the pallor that at first 
had startled him. 

** Mr. Atwood," she murmured, “you are kindness it- 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


37 ° 

self, and I have not deserved it. Forgive me. I will try 
not to fail you to-day, for your respect sustains me, and I 
would not lose it. ' ’ 

“ I knew your brave spirit would second all our efforts,” 
he said in like low tones, and with a bright, grateful look. 
“ Here, waiter — come, Miss Jocelyn, it’s by just such prosaic 
means that soldiers sustain the fight. You'll dine at home. '' 

“ Yes, hurry up,” added the officer ; “we have no time 
now for words or ceremony.” 

She ate a few mouthfuls, and drank some coffee. “ I 
cannot take any more now,” she said to Roger. 

Oh, how plainly her womanly instinct divined his un- 
bounded loyalty ; and, with bitter protest at her weakness, 
she knew with equal certainty that she shrank from his love 
with her old, unconquerable repugnance. With a dissimu- 
lation which even he did not penetrate, she looked her thanks 
as the officer led the way to the street, and said, 4 4 Since your 
friends provide the carriage, you can ride, miss ; only we 
can' t part company. ' ' 

She stepped into the coach, the policeman taking the op- 
posite seat. 

44 Oh, God, how pale and wan she is ! This will kill 
her, ' ' Roger groaned, as he sprang up on the box with the 
driver. 

It was so early that few were abroad, and yet Mildred 
would not look up. How could she e.ver look up again ! 
The leaden clouds seemed to rest upon the steeples of the 
churches. Churches ! and such scenes as she had witnessed, 
and such a wrong as hers, were taking place under the 
shadow of their spires ! 

Roger had passed as sleepless a night as had fallen to Mil- 
dred’s lot, and bitterly he regretted that he had been able to 
accomplish so little. Mr. Wentworth was out of town, and 
would not be back for a day or two. Then he sought the 


A WISE JUDGE . 


37 * 

judge before whom Mildred would appear the following 
morning, and learned, with dismay, that he, too, had gone 
to a neighboring city, and would return barely in time to 
open court at the usual hour ! He had hoped that, by tell- 
ing his story beforehand, the judge would adopt his plan of 
discovering the real culprit. This was still his hope, for, 
after long thought, he determined not to employ counsel, 
fearing it would lead to a prolongation of the case. His 
strong characteristic of self-reliance led him to believe that he 
could manage the affair best alone, and he was confident 
from his own inexperience. The rain had ceased, and for 
hours he paced the wet pavement near the station-house, 
finding a kind of satisfaction in being as near as possible to 
the one he loved, though utterly unable to say a reassuring 
word. 

Having learned that the prisoners might ride to court if 
the means were provided, he had a carriage ready long before 
the appointed time, and his presence did much to nerve Mil- 
dred for the ordeal she so much dreaded. 

On reaching the entrance at which the prisoners were ad- 
mitted, he sprang down to assist Mildred to alight ; but the 
officer said gruffly, “ Stand back, young man ; you must 
have your say in the court-room. You are a little too 
officious. ' ’ 

“ No, sir ; I’m only most friendly.” 

“Well, well, we have our rules,” and he led the trem- 
bling girl within the stony portals, and she was locked up in 
what is termed “ the box,” with the other female prisoners, 
who were now arriving on foot 

This was, perhaps, the worst experience she had yet en- 
dured, and she longed for the privacy of her cell again. 
Never before had she come in contact with such debased 
wrecks of humanity, and she blushed for womanhood as she 
cowered in the farthest corner and looked upon her com- 


372 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


panions — brutal women, with every vice stamped on their 
bloated features. The majority were habitual drunkards, 
filthy in person and foul of tongue. True to their depraved 
instincts, they soon began to ridicule and revile one who, by 
contrast, proved how fallen and degraded they were. And 
yet, not even from these did the girl recoil with such horror 
as from some brazen harpies who said words in her ear that 
made her hide her face with shame. The officer in charge 
saw that she was persecuted, and sternly interfered in her 
behalf, but from their hideous presence and contact she could 
not escape. 

By some affinity not yet wholly obliterated, the girl she 
had heard weeping in the night shrank to her side, and her 
swollen eyes and forlorn appearance could not hide the fact 
that she was very young, and might be very pretty. Mil- 
dred knew not what to say to her, but she took her hand 
and held it. This silent expression of sympathy provoked 
another outburst of grief, and the poor young creature 
sobbed on Mildred’s shoulder as if her heart were breaking. 
Mildred placed a sustaining arm around her, but her own 
sustaining truth and purity she could not impart. 

A partition only separated her from the ‘ ‘ box’ ’ — which 
was simply a large wooden pen with round iron bars facing 
the corridor — to which the male prisoners were brought, one 
after another, by the policemen who had arrested them. 
The arrival of the judge was somewhat delayed, and may the 
reader never listen to such language as profaned her ears 
during the long hour and a half before the opening of the 
court. 

Fortunately her turn came rather early, and she at last was 
ushered to the doorway which looked upon the crowded 
court-room, and her heart throbbed with hope as she singled 
out her mother, Belle, Mrs. Wheaton, and Roger, from 
among long lines of curious and repulsive faces. The former 


A WISE judge: 


373 


kissed their hands to her, and tried to give wan, reassuring 
smiles, which their tears belied. Roger merely bowed gravely, 
and then, with an expression that was singularly alert and 
resolute, gave his whole attention to all that was passing. 
After recognizing her friends, Mildred turned to the judge, 
feeling that she would discover her fate in his expression and 
manner. Was he a kindly, sympathetic man, unhardened 
by the duties of his office ? She could learn but little from 
his grave, impassive face. She soon feared that she had slight 
cause for hope, for after what seemed to her an absurdly 
brief, superficial trial, she saw two of her companions of the 
“box” sentenced to three months’ imprisonment. The 
decision, which to her had such an awful import, was pro- 
nounced in an off-hand manner, and in the matter-of-fact 
tone with which one would dispose of bales of merchandise, 
and the floods of tears and passionate appeals seemingly had 
no more effect on the arbiter of their fates than if he had 
been a stony image. She could not know that they were 
old offenders, whose character was well known to the judge 
and the officers that had arrested them. Such apparent hap- 
hazard justice or injustice had a most depressing effect upon 
her and the weeping girl who stood a little in advance. 

The next prisoner who appeared before the bar received 
very different treatment. He was a middle-aged man, and 
had the appearance and was clothed in the garb of a gentle- 
man. With nervously trembling hands and bowed head, 
he stood before the judge, who eyed him keenly, after read- 
ing the charge of intoxication in the streets. 

“ Have you ever been arrested before ?” he asked. 

“ No indeed, sir,” was the low, emphatic reply. 

“ Come up here ; I wish to speak with you.” 

The officer in attendance took the half-comprehending 
man by the elbow and led him up within the bar before the 
long desk which ran the whole width of the court-room, 


374 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and behind which the judge sat with his clerks and assist- 
ants. 

“ Now tell me all about it,” said the judge, and the man 
in a few words told his story without any palliation. With a 
gleam of hope Mildred saw the expression of the judge’s 
face change as he listened, and when at last he replied, in 
tones so low that none could hear them save he to whom 
they were addressed, she saw that look which wins all 
hearts — the benignant aspect of one who might condemn for 
evil, but who would rather win and save from evil. The 
man slowly lifted his eyes to the speaker’s face, and hope 
and courage began to show themselves in his bearing. The 
judge brought his exhortation to a practical conclusion, for 
he said, “Promise me that with God’s help you will never 
touch the vile stuff again. 

The promise was evidently sincere and hearty. “ Give 
me your hand on it,” said his Honor. 

The man started as if he could scarcely believe his ears, 
then wrung the judge’s hand, while his eyes moistened with 
gratitude. ‘‘You are at liberty. Good-morning, sir;” 
and the man turned and walked through the crowded court- 
room, with the aspect of one to whom manhood had been 
restored. 

Hope sprang up in Mildred’s heart, for she now saw that 
her fa te was not in the hands of a stony-hearted slave of rou- 
tine. She looked toward her relatives, and greeted their tear- 
ful smiles with a wan glimmer of light on Ijer own face, and 
then she turned to watch the fortunes of the weeping girl 
who followed next in order. She did not know the charge, 
but guessed it only too well from the judge’s face, as the 
officer who had arrested her made his low explanation. She, 
too, was summoned within the rail, and the judge began to 
question her. At first she was top greatly overcome by her 
emotions to answer. As she cowered, trembled, and sobbed, 


"A WISE JUDGE.” 


375 


she might well have been regarded as the embodiment of 
that shame and remorse which overwhelm fallen womanhood 
before the heart is hardened and the face made brazen by 
years of vice. Patiently and kindly the judge drew from her 
faltering lips some pitiful story, and then he talked to her in 
low, impressive tones, that seemed to go straight to her de- 
spairing soul. A kind, firm, protecting hand might then 
have led her back to a life of virtue, for such had been her 
bitter foretastes of the fruits of sin that surely she would have 
gladly turned from them, could the chance have been given 
to her. The judge mercifully remitted her punishment, and 
gave her freedom. Who received her, as she turned her face 
toward the staring throng that intervened between her and 
the street ? Some large-hearted woman, bent on rescuing an 
erring sister ? Some agent of one of the many costly chari- 
ties of the city ? No, in bitter shame, no. Only the vile 
madam who traded on the price of her body and soul, and 
who, with vulture-like eyes, had watched the scene. She 
only had stood ready to pay the fine, if one had been im- 
posed according to the letter of the law. She only received 
the weak and friendless creature, from whom she held as 
pledges all her small personal effects, and to whom she 
promised immediate shelter from the intolerable stare that 
follows such victims of society. The girl’s weak, pretty face, 
and soft, white hands were but too true an index to her in- 
firm will and character, and, although fluttering and reluc- 
tant, she again fell helpless into the talons of the harpy. 
Hapless girl ! you will probably stand at this bar again, and 
full sentence will then be given against you. The judge 
frowned heavily as he saw the result of his clemency, an d 
then, as if it were an old story, he turned to the next culprit 
Mildred had been much encouraged as she watched the issue 
of the two cases just described ; but as her eyes followed the 
girl wistfully toward the door of freedom she encountered 


37 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


the cold, malignant gaze of the man who had charge of ho 
department at the shop, and who she instinctively felt was 
the cause of her shameful and dangerous position. By his 
side sat the two women who had searched her and the lead- 
ing foreman of the store. Sick and faint from apprehension, 
she turned imploringly toward Roger, who was regarding 
the floor-walker with such vindictive sternness that she felt 
the wretch’s hour of reckoning would soon come, whatever 
might be her fate. This added to her trouble, for she feared 
that she was involving Roger in danger. 

No time was given for thoughts on such side issues, for the 
prisoner preceding her in the line was sentenced, after a trial 
of three minutes — a summary proceeding that was not hope- 
inspiring. 

The name of Mildred Jocelyn was now called, and there 
was a murmur of expectant interest in the court-room, for 
she was not by any means an ordinary prisoner in appear- 
ance, and there were not a few present who knew something 
of the case. The young girl was pushed before the bar, and 
would gladly have clung to it, in order to support her trem- 
bling form. But while she could not infuse vigor into her 
overtaxed muscles, her brave spirit rallied to meet the emer- 
gency, and she fixed her eyes unwaveringly upon the judge, 
who now for the first time noticed her attentively, and it did 
not escape her intensely quickened perceptions that his eyes 
at once grew kindly and sympathetic. Sitting day after day, 
and year after year, in his position, he had gained a won- 
derful insight into character, and in Mildred’s pure, sweet 
face he saw no evidence of guilt or of criminal tendencies. 
It was, indeed, white with fear, and thin from wearing toil 
and grief ; but this very pallor made it seem only more spirit- 
ual and free from earthliness, while every feature, and the 
unconscious grace of her attitude, bespoke high breeding 
and good blood. 


“A WISE judge: 


377 


First, the officer who arrested her told his story, and then 
the elder of the two women who searched her was summoned 
as the first witness. The judge looked grave, and he glanced 
uneasily at the prisoner from time to time ; but the same 
clear, steadfast eyes met his gaze, unsullied by a trace of 
guilt. Then the second woman corroborated the story of her 
associate, and the judge asked, “ How came you to suspect 
the prisoner so strongly as to search her ?” and at this point 
the floor-walker was summoned. 

The vigilant magistrate did not fail to note the momentary 
glance of aversion and horror which Mildred bestowed upon 
this man, and then her eyes returned with so deep and 
pathetic an appeal to his face that his heart responded, and 
his judgment led him also to believe that there was error and 
perhaps wrong in the prosecution. Still he was compelled to 
admit to himself that the case looked very dark for the girl, 
who was gaining so strong a hold on his sympathy. 

“ I must inform your Honor,” began the witness plausi- 
bly, after having been sworn, “ that laces had been missed 
from the department in which this girl was employed, and I 
was keenly on the alert, as it was my duty to be. Some 
suspicious circumstances led me to think that the prisoner 
was the guilty party, and the search proved my suspicions to 
be correct.” 

“ What were the suspicious circumstances ?” 

The man seemed at a loss for a moment. “ Well, your 
Honor, she went to the cloak-room yesterday afternoon,” he 
said. 

“ Do not all the girls go to the cloak-room occasionally ?” 

“ Yes, but there was something in her face and manner 
that fastened my suspicions upon her. 

“ What evidences of guilt did you detect ?” 

“ I can scarcely explain — nothing very tangible. The evi- 
dences of guilt were found on her person, your Honor.” 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


378 

" Yes, so much has been clearly shown.*' 

And she was very reluctant to be searched, which would 
not have been the case had she been conscious of innocence. ” 

The woman who searched her was now asked, ‘ ‘ Did she 
shrink from search, in such a manner as to betoken guilt ?” 

“ I can’t say that she did show any fear of being searched 
by us,” was the reply. “ She refused to be searched in the 
private office of the firm.” 

“ That is, in the presence of men ? Quite naturally she 
did.” Then to the floor- walker, “ Have your relations 
with this girl been entirely friendly ?” 

“Iam glad to say I have no relations with her whatever. 
My relations are the same that I hold to the other girls — 
merely to see that they do their duty.” 

“You are perfectly sure that you have never cherished any 
ill-will toward her?” 

“ So far from it, I was at first inclined to be friendly.” 

“ What do you mean by the term friendly ?” 

“ Well, your Honor” (a little confusedly), “ the term 
seems plain enough. * ' 

“ And she did not reciprocate your friendship ?” was the 
keen query. 

* ‘ After I came to know her better, I gave her no occasion 
to reciprocate anything ; and, pardon me, your Honor, I 
scarcely see what bearing these questions have on the plain 
facts in the case. ’ ' 

A slight frown was the only evidence that the judge had 
noted the impertinent suggestion that he did not know his 
business. 

“ Are you perfectly sure that you cherish no ill-will toward 
the prisoner?” 

“ I simply wish to do my duty by my employers. I 
eventually learned that her father was an opium-eater and a 
sot, and I don’t fancy that kind of people. That is my ex- 


WISE judge:* 


379 


planation, ' ' he concluded, with a large attempt at dignity, 
and in a tone that he evidently meant all should hear. 

“ Her father is not on trial, and that information was un- 
called for. Have you any further testimony ?” the judge 
asked coldly. 

“ No, sir,” and he stepped down amid a suppressed hiss 
in the court-room, for the spectators evidently shared in the 
antipathy with which he had inspired the keen-eyed but im- 
passive and reticent magistrate, who now beckoned Mildred 
to step up close to him, and she came to him as if he were 
her friend instead of her judge. He was touched by her 
trust ; and her steadfast look of absolute confidence made 
him all the more desirous of protecting her, if he could find 
any warrant for doing so. She said to him unmistakably by 
her manner, ‘ ‘ I put myself in your hands. ’ ’ 

“ My child,” the judge began seriously, yet kindly, “ this 
is a very grave charge that is brought against you, and if it is 
your wish you can waive further trial before me at this stage 
of proceedings, for unless you can prove yourself innocent at 
this preliminary examination, your case must be heard before 
a higher court. Perhaps you had better obtain counsel, and 
have the whole matter referred at once to the grand jury.” 

“ I would rather be tried by you, sir,” Mildred replied, in 
a vibrating voice full of deep, repressed feeling ; “I am in- 
nocent. It would be like death to me to remain longer un- 
der this shameful charge. I have confidence in you. I 
know I am guiltless. Please let me me be tried now, now , 
for I cannot endure it any longer.” 

“Very well, then ;” and he handed her a small, grimy 
Bible, that no doubt had been kissed by scores of perjured 
lips. But Mildred pressed hers reverently upon it, as she 
swore to “ tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth. 

Aiter a few preliminary questions as to age, etc., the jus- 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


3»o 

tice said, reassuringly, Now tell your story briefly and 
clearly/ * 

It was indeed a brief story, and it had the impress of truth ; 
but his Honor looked very grave as he recognized how little 
there was in it to refute the positive testimony already given. 
“ Have you witnesses ?” he asked. 

“ My mother and sister are present, and — and — a young 
man who thinks he knows something in my favor.” 

“ I will hear your mother first,” said the judge, believing 
that in her he would find the chief source of character ; and 
when the sad, refined gentlewoman stood beside her daugh- 
ter, he was all the more convinced that the girl ought to be 
innocent, and that all his insight into character and its origin 
would be at fault if she were not. In low, eager tones, Mrs. 
Jocelyn spoke briefly of their misfortunes, and testified as to 
Mildred’s conduct. “ She has been an angel of patience and 
goodness in our home,” she said, in conclusion ; “ and if 
this false charge succeeds, we shall be lost and ruined in- 
deed. My daughter’s pastor is out of town, and in our 
poverty we have few friends who could be of any service. 
An old neighbor, Mrs. Wheaton, is present, and will confirm 
my words, if you wish ; but we would thank your Honor if 
you will call Mr. Roger Atwood, who says he has informa- 
tion that will aid my child.” 

“ Very well, madam,” responded the judge kindly, “ we 
will hear Mr. Atwood.” 

Roger was now sworn, while Mrs. Jocelyn returned to her 
seat. In the young fellow’s frank, honest face the judge 
found an agreeable contrast with the ill-omened visage of the 
floor-walker, whose good looks could not hide an evil nature. 

“ I must beg your Honor to listen to me with patience,” 
Roger began in a low tone, “ for my testimony is peculiar, 
and does not go far enough unless furthered by your Honor’s 
skill in cross-questioning •” and in eager tones, heard only 


“A WISE JUDGE. 


3 * 


oy the judge, he told what he had seen, and suggested his 
theory that if the girl, whom he had followed two evenings 
before, could be examined previous to any communication 
with her accomplice, she would probably admit the whole 
guilty plot. 

The judge listened attentively, nodding approvingly as 
Roger finished, and said, “ Leave me to manage this affair. 
I wish you to go at once with an officer, point out this girl 
to him, and bring her here. She must not have communi- 
cation with any one. Nor must anything be said to her 
relating to the case by either you or the officer. Leave her 
wholly to me. ’ ' 

A subpoena was made out immediately and given to a 
policeman, with a few whispered and emphatic injunctions, 
and Roger was told to accompany him. 

“ This case is adjourned for the present. You may sit 
with your mother within the railing,” he added kindly to 
Mildred. 

The floor-walker had been watching the turn that the pro- 
ceedings were taking with great uneasiness, and now was 
eager to depart, in order to caution the girl that Roger was in 
pursuit of against admitting the least knowledge of the affair ; 
but the judge was too quick for him, and remarked that he 
was not through with him yet, and requested that he and the 
representative of the firm should remain. The two women 
who had testified against Mildred were permitted to depart 
Then, as if dismissing the case from his mind, he proceeded 
to dispose of the other prisoners. 

Belle joined her sister, and greeted her with great effusive- 
ness, looking ready to champion her against the world ; but 
they at last quieted her, and waited with trembling impatience 
and wonder for the outcome of Roger’s mission. 

The girl who had been led to wrong Mildred so greatly re- 
turned to the shop that morning with many misgivings, which 


tv I THOU T A HOME. 


$*2 

were much increased when she learned what had occurred. 
She also felt that her accomplice had dealt treacherously m 
allowing such serious proceedings against Mildred, for he had 
promised that she should be merely taxed with theft and 
warned to seek employment elsewhere. “ If he deceives in 
one respect he will in another, and I’ m not safe from arrest 
either, ’ ’ she said to herself, and she made so many blunders 
in her guilty preoccupation that she excited the surprise of 
her companions. As she was waiting on a customer she 
heard a voice remark, “ That’s the girl,” and looking up 
she grew faint and white as she saw, standing before her, a 
policeman, who served his subpoena at once, saying, “You 
must go with me immediately. ’ * 

Frightened and irresolute, she stammered that she knew 
nothing about the affair. 

“ Well, then, you must come and tell his Honor so.” 

“ Must I go ?” she appealed to one of the firm, who hap- 
pened to be near. 

“ Certainly,” he replied, examining the subpoena ; “go 
and tell all you know, or if you don’t know anything, say so/' 

“ I don’t see why I should be dragged into the case — ” 
she began brazenly. 

“There’s the reason,” said the officer impatiently; 

‘ ‘ that subpoena has the power of bringing any man or woman 
in the city.” 

Seeing that resistance was useless, she sullenly accompa- 
nied them to a street-car, and was soon in readiness to be 

called upon for her testimony. The judge having disposed 
Di the case then on trial, Mildred was again summoned to 
die bar, and the unwilling witness was sent for. She only 
had time to cast a reproachful glance at the man who. she 
feared, had betrayed her, and who tried, by his manner, to 
caution her, when the judge demanded her attention, he 
having in the mean time noted the fellow’s effort 


“A wise judge: 


3*3 


“ Stand there,” he said, placing her so that her back was 
toward the man who sought to signal silence. “ Officer, 
swear her. Now,” he resumed severely, “any deviation 
from the truth, and the whole truth, will be perjury, which, 
you know, is a State-prison offence. I can assure you most 
honestly that it will be better for you, in all respects, to hide 
nothing, for you will soon discover that I know something 
about this affair. ’ ’ 

After the preliminary questions, which were asked with 
impressive solemnity, he demanded, “ Did you not leave 
the shop on Tuesday evening, and pass up the Avenue to 
Street ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Did you not look back twice, to see if you were fol- 
lowed ?’ ’ 

“ I may have looked back.” 

“ You don’t deny it, then ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“ Did not Mr. Bissel, the floor- walker, join you in 

Street, before you had gone very far ?” 

* ‘ Ye — yes, sir, ’ ’ with a start. 

“ Did he not say something that agitated you very much ?” 

“ He may have frightened me,” she faltered. 

‘ ‘ Yes, he probably did ; but why ? Did you not make a 
strong gesture of protest against what he said ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” with a troubled stare at the judge. 

“ Did you not go on with him very quietly and submis- 
sively, after a moment or two ?’ ’ 

‘ * Yes, sir, ’ ’ and her face now was downcast, and she be- 
gan to tremble. 

“ Did you not enter a covered alley- way, that led to teue 
ments in the rear ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, sir,” with increasing agitation. 

“ Well, what did you do there ?” 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


*84 

u Has he told on me, your Honor?’' she gasped, with a 
sudden flood of tears. 

“ What he has done is no concern of yours. You are un- 
der oath to tell the whole truth. There was a single gas-jet 
burning in the covered passage-way, was there not ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, sir,” sobbing violently. 

“ Has Miss Mildred Jocelyn ever wronged you ?’ * 

“ N — no, sir, not that I know of.” 

“ Now tell me just what occurred under that gas-jet.” 

“ I’ll tell your Honor the whole truth,” the girl burst out, 
“ if your Honor’ll let me off this time. It’s my first offence, 
and we’re poor, and I was driven to it by need, and he prom- 
ised me that Miss Jocelyn wouldn’t suffer anything worse 
than a warning to find another place. ’ ’ 

Believing that her accomplice had betrayed her, she told 
the whole story without any concealment, fully exonerating 
Mildred. Although the judge maintained his stern, im- 
passive aspect throughout the scene, he hugely enjoyed the 
floor-walker’ s dismay and confusion, and his tortured in- 
ability to warn the girl to deny everything. 

“ Please, your Honor, forgive me this time,” sobbed the 
trembling witness in conclusion, “ and I’ll never do wrong 
again. 

* ‘ I have no right or power to punish you, ’ ’ replied the 
judge; ‘‘it rests wholly with your employers whether they 
will prosecute you or not. Send that floor-walker here” (to 
an officer). “ Well, sir, what have you to say to this testi- 
mony ?” he asked, as the fellow shuffled forward, pale and 
irresolute. “ Remember, you are still under oath.” 

The wily villain, caught in his own trap, hesitated. He 
was tempted to deny that the plot against Mildred was at his 
instigation ; but, like the girl, he saw that the judge had 
mysterious information on the subject, and he could not tell 
how far this knowledge went If he entered on a series cf 


” A WISE JUDGE.” 


3«S 


denials he might be confronted by another witness. The 
young man who had been sent to identify the girl, and whose 
unexpected presence had brought such disaster, might have 
been concealed in the passage-way, and so have seen and 
heard all. With the fear of an indictment for perjury before 
his eyes the fellow began to whine. 

“ I was only trying to protect the interests of my employ- 
ers. I had suspected the Jocelyn girl — ” At this there 
arose from the court-room a loud and general hiss, which the 
judge repressed, as he sternly interposed, 

“ We have nothing to do with your suspicions. Do you 
deny the testimony ?’ * 

“ No, sir ; but — ” 

“ That’s enough. No words ; step down/' Then turn- 
ing to Mildred, he said kindly and courteously, “ Miss Joce- 
lyn, it gives me pleasure to inform you that your innocence 
has been clearly shown. I should also inform you that this 
man Bissel has made himself liable to suit for damages, and 
I hope that you will prosecute him. I am sorry that you 
have been subjected to so painful an ordeal. You are now 
at liberty. 

“ I thank — oh, I thank and bless your Honor,” said Mil- 
dred, with such a depth of gratitude and gladness in her face 
that the judge smiled to himself several times that day. It 
was like a burst of June sunshine after a storm. While the 
witness was admitting the facts which would prove her guilt- 
less, Mildred was scarcely less agitated than the wretched girl 
herself ; but her strong excitement showed itself not by tears, 
but rather in her dilated eyes, nervously trembling form, and 
quickly throbbing bosom. Now that the tension was over 
she sank on a bench near, and covering her eyes, from which 
gushed a torrent of tears, with her hands, murmured audibly, 
“ Thank God 1 oh, thank God ! He has not deserted me 
after all. ’ ’ 


386 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Looks of strong sympathy were bent upon her from al! 
parts of the room, and even the judge himself was so much 
affected that he took prompt refuge in the duties of his office, 
and summoning the foreman of the shop, said, “ You may 
inform your employers how matters stand. ’ ' This function- 
ary had been regarding the later stage of the proceedings in 
undisguised astonishment, and now hastened to depart with 
his tidings, the floor-walker following him with the aspect of 
a whipped cur, and amid the suppressed groans and hisses of 
the spectators. The girl, too, slunk away after them in the 
hope of making peace with her employers. 

The judge now observed that Roger had buttonholed a re- 
porter, who had been dashing off hieroglyphics that meant a 
spicy paragraph the following day. Summoning the young 
man, he said, as if the affair were of slight importance, 
“ Since the girl has been proved innocent, and will have no 
further relation to the case, I would suggest that, out of 
deference to her friends and her own feelings, there be no 
mention of her name, ’ ’ and the news-gatherer good-naturedly 
acceded to the request. 

A new case was called, and new interests, hopes, and fears 
agitated the hearts of other groups, that had been drawn to 
the judgment-seat by the misfortunes or crimes of those 
bound to them by various ties. 

Mrs. Jocelyn would not leave the place, which she had so 
dreaded, until Roger could accompany them, and they chafed 
at every moment of delay that prevented their pouring out 
their thanks. But Mildred’s heart was too full for words. 
She fully understood how great a service he had rendered 
her. She bitterly reproached herself for all her prejudice in 
the past, and was in a mood for any self-sacrifice tfiat he 
would ask. Tears of deep and mingled feeling fell fast, and 
she longed to escape from the staring crowd. Not before 
such witnesses could she speak and look the gratitude she felt 


" A WISE JUDGE." 


387 


With downcast eyes and quivering lips she followed her 
mother — to whom Roger had given his arm — from the court- 
room. A carriage stood at the door, into which Mrs. Joce- 
lyn was hurried before she could speak ; then turning so 
promptly that there was no chance even for exuberant Belle 
or the effervescing Mrs. Wheaton to utter a syllable, Roger 
seized Mildred’s hand, and said earnestly, “ Thanks for your 
aid, Miss Jocelyn. I thought you were the bravest girl in 
the world, and you have proved it. I am as glad as you are, 
and this is the happiest moment of my life. I’ve just one 
favor to ask — please rest, and don’t worry about anything- - 
not anything. That’s all. Good-by, for I must be off to 
business and before she or any of them could speak hf 
caught a swiftly passing street-car and disappeared. 


38# 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

U I AM SO PERPLEXED.” 

HE little group that Roger left on the sidewalk looked 



1 after him in a dazed manner for a moment, and then 
Belle exclaimed, a trifle indignantly, “ Well, I declare, if 
he hasn’t thanked you, instead of you thanking him.” 

Mildred sprang into the carriage, feeling that she must have 
some refuge at once, and, burying her face on her mother’s 
shoulder, burst into another passion of tears. 

“ There, there,” said Mrs. Wheaton, as they were driven 
toward their home ; “ the poor child’s 'eart is too full for 
hany neat speeches now. Ven they meets hagain she’ 11 thank 
him with heyes an’ ’and, better than hany voids 'ere lion the 
street. He vas too bright a chap to take his thanks in this 
’ere public place.” 

To their surprise, Mildred raised her head, and replied, in 
strong protest, “ You do him wrong, Mrs. Wheaton. He 
was so modest and manly that he wished to escape all thanks. 
He has taken a noble revenge on me for all my stupid preju- 
dice.” 

‘ ‘ That’ s right, ’ ’ cried ecstatic Belle. ‘ ‘ Honest confession 
is good for the soul. I’ll admit that most men and women 
are made of dust — street dust at that — but Roger Atwood is 
pure gold. He has the quickest brain and steadiest hand c* 
any fellow in the world, and he’ll stand up at the head before 
he’s gray.” 

Fortunately, Mr. Jocelyn was not at home when they re- 


“I AM SO PERPLEXED 


3*9 


turned, and they had a chance to take a quiet breath after 
their strong excitement. Mrs. Wheaton, with many hearty 
congratulations and words of cheer, took her departure. 
Mrs. Jocelyn was justly solicitous about Mildred, fearing that 
the reaction from an ordeal that would tax the strongest 
might bring utter prostration to her delicate and sensitive 
organism. Mildred’s manner soon threatened to realize her 
woist fears. She had passed a sleepless night, and was faint 
from fatigue, and yet, as the hours lapsed, she grew more 
nervously restless. Her eyes were hot and dry, sometimes so 
full of resolution that they were stern in their steadfastness, 
and again her face expressed a pathetic irresoluteness and sad- 
ness that made the mother s heart ache. 

“ Millie,” she whispered, as she came to the bed on which 
the girl was tossing restlessly, “ there’s something on youi 
mind. Mother’s eyes are quick in reading the face of hei 
child. You are thinking — you are debating something that 
won’t let you rest, when you need rest so much. Oh, Mil- 
lie darling, my heart was growing apathetic — it seemed 
almost dead in my breast. I’ve suffered on account of youi 
father, till it seemed as if I couldn’t suffer any more ; but 
your peril and your troubled face teach me that it is not 
dead, and that my best solace now is devotion to my chik 
dren. What is it, Millie, that you are turning over in your 
mind, which makes you look so desperately sad and fearful, 
and again — and then your expression frightens me — so deter- 
mined as if you were meditating some step, which, I fear, 
you ought not to take ? Oh, Millie, my child, the worst that 
I know about is bad enough, God knows, but your face 
makes me dread that you may be led by your troubles to do 
something which you would not think of were you less 
morbid and overwrought. I may have seemed to you a 
poor, weak woman in all of our troubles, but mother's love 
is strong, if her mind and body are not” 


390 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Mamma, mamma, do not judge me or yourself so 
harshly. You have always been my ideal, mamma, and I 
was thinking of nothing worse than how to rescue you and 
the others from your desperate straits. How can we go on 
living in this way, your heart breaking, your poor, frail body 
overtaxed with coarse labor, and Belle, Minnie, and Fred be- 
coming contaminated by our dreadful surroundings. The 
*hock I’ve received has awakened me from my old apathy. 
I see that while I just toiled for daily bread, and a little of it 
too, we were drifting down, down. Papa grows worse and 
Worse. Belle is in danger ; and what will become of Fred 
\nd Minnie if they remain long amid such scenes ? Only 
Yesterday morning I heard Fred quarrelling with another 
'ittle boy on the landing, and lisping out oaths in his anger. 
Oh, mamma, we must be able to look forward to some 
escape from all this, or else you will soon give way to de- 
spair, and the worst will come. Oh that I were a man ! 
Oh that I knew how to do something, through which I 
tould earn enough to put papa into an institution, such as I 
lave read of, and give you a home worthy of the name. 
But I cannot. I can only do what thousands of others can 
lo, and take my chances with them in getting work. And 
now I seem so broken down in body and soul that I feel as 
if I could never work again. There seems to be one way, 
mamma, in which I can help you/' And then she hesi- 
tated, and a deep, burning flush crimsoned the face that was 
so pale before. “ Well,” she said, at last, in a kind of des- 
peration, ‘ 1 I might as well speak plainly, if I speak at all. 
It’s no secret to you how Roger Atwood feels toward me 
and also, mamma, you know my heart. While I could kiss 
his hand in gratitude, while I would not shrink from any 
suffering for his sake, to show how deeply I appreciate the 
priceless service he has rendered me, still, mamma, mamma, 
I’m only a woman, and am cursed with all the perversity of 


I AM SO PERPLEXED 


391 


a woman's heart Oh, what a loyal friend, what a devoted 
sister I could be to him ! Mamma, can’t you understand 
me ?” 

“ Yes, Millie," sadly answered her mother. 

“ Well, mamma, I’m so perplexed. It seems for his 
sake, since we have become so poor and disgraced, that I 
ought to refuse his suit. To the world, and especially to his 
friends, it will appear dreadfully selfish that we should link 
our wretched fortunes to his, and so cloud his prospects and 
impede his progress. I can’t tell you how I dread such 
criticism. And yet, mamma, you know — no, mamma, even 
you cannot understand how great would be my self-sacrifice, 
when to others it will appear that I am only too glad to 
cling to one who gives some promise of better days. But the 
turning point has now come. Hitherto my manner toward 
Mr. Atwood has been unmistakable, and he has understood 
me ; and were he obtuseness itself he could not fail to un- 
derstand me. But after what has happened I cannot treat 
him so any longer. It would be shameful ingratitude. In- 
deed, in my cell last night I almost vowed that if ho 
would prove me innocent — if he would save you and Belle 
and the children, I would make any sacrifice that he would 
ask. If I feel this way he will know it, for he almost reads 
my thoughts, he is so quick, and his feeling for me is so 
deep. And yet, mamma, now that I have thought more I 
fear that in sacrificing my own heart I am also sacrificing 
him. His friends will think so, at least. He is so young, 
chivalric, and unworldly that he may think it a noble thing 
to help us fight out our battle ; but will he think so in com- 
ing years ? Will he think so if the struggle is long and 
hard ? Will he think so if we impede and retard him ? Alas, 
will he think so if he finds that I can give him only gratitude 
and respect ? Oh, mamma, I am so perplexed. I don’t 
want to wrong him ; I can’t see you suffer on hopelessly 


392 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


and helplessly, and therefore it seems I ought to give him the 
right to help us should he seek for it, as I feel sure he will if 
I show any relenting. We could not be married for a long 
time ; but if we were engaged he could do much to shield 
and protect us all ; and now, alas, we have no protector. 
Belle needs one — oh, how sorely she needs one — and what 
would have been my fate had he not come to my aid ? It 
would seem heartless in me to say simply, Thank you, sir ; 
and yet, what heart have I to give in exchange for his devo- 
tion ? He deserves so much, and I can give so little. Oh, 
mamma, will an old love die and a new one grow because 
they — because you wish it, and pray for it? I am so per- 
plexed, so tossed and torn by my conflicting thoughts and 
feelings that my poor brain reels, and it seems as if I should 
lose my reason. And yet I must decide upon some course, 
for if, after his loyalty to me, I give him hope, I'll not disap- 
point him if I died a thousand times — no, not if Vinton 
Arnold came and laid all his wealth at my feet ; I can see his 
love in every glance of his eye, still more can I feel it when 
he is near me ; and if I offer him friendship or a sister’s affec- 
tion, it will seem to him like giving a stone for bread. But 
I must offer him only these or else give him hope — a hope 
that it would now be dishonor to disappoint. Mamma, 
mamma, what shall I do — what ought I to do V* 

During this outpouring of her child’s soul Mrs. Jocelyn 
was much agitated, and wiped tear after tear from her eyes. 
The impulse of her loyal, unworldly heart was first to take 
sides with Mildred’s faithfulness to her earliest love, but her 
reason condemned such a course so positively that she said 
all she could against it. ‘ ‘ Millie, ' ’ she began, falteringly at 
first, “I feel with you and for you deeply. I know your 
rare quality of fidelity — of constancy. You are an old-fash* 
ioned Southern girl in this respect While I would not have 
you wrong your heart, you must not blindly follow its im* 


“ I AM SO PERPLEXED." 


393 


pulses. It is often said that women have no reason, though 
some are calculating enough, Heaven knows. Surely, Mil- 
lie, this is a case in which you should take some counsel of 
four reason, your judgment ; and believe me, darling, I 
ipeak more for your sake than ours. While I admit that 
&oger has become very dear to me, I would not sacrifice you, 
my love, even in our sore straits. It is of you I think 
chiefly. I cannot endure the thought that the future of my 
darling child may be utterly blighted. I cannot bear to think 
^f your settling down into a weary working-woman, with 
nothing to look forward to but daily drudgery for daily bread. ' ’ 

“ I do not dread that so much, mamma — oh, nothing 
like so much — as a long and perhaps a vain effort to love one 
who has a sacred right to love as well as loyalty. ' ’ 

“ Millie, you don’t know how lonely and desolate you* 
life might become. Millie — forgive me for saying it — your 
old love is utterly vain. * ’ 

‘ I know it, mamma,” said Mildred, with a low sob. 

* Therefore, my darling, the sweetness and goodness 01 
your young life ought not to be wasted on that which is vain 
and empty. If Mr. Arnold were worthy of your affections 
he would not have left you all this time without even a word. 
And, Millie, we may as well face the truth : we never be- 
longed to the Arnolds’ world, and it was wicked folly, for 
which I suffer hourly remorse, that we ever tried to approach 
it If, instead of attempting to live like our rich neighbors, 
I had saved a goodly portion of your father’s income, all 
might have been so different ; but I was never taught to save, 
and I was just blind — blind. I never see your father but the 
thought comes, like a stab in the heart, I might have pre* 
vented it Oh, if I had only stayed with him ! It was dur- 
ing that fatal separation that he formed the habit which will 
cause his death and mine.” (Poor Mrs. Jocelyn always re* 
mained under this illusion.) 


394 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


“Oh, mamma, mamma, don’t talk that way; I can’t 
bear it.’’ 

* 4 1 must prepare you, Millie, darling, for what I clearly 
foresee. Martin is destroying himself, and I shall not long 
survive him. Oh, Millie, it’s a terrible thing to love a weak 
man as I love your father. I love him so that his course is 
killing me. It could not be otherwise, for I am much to 
blame. Don’t interrupt me ; I am speaking these bitter 
words for your ultimate good. Your life is before you — ’’ 

“ Mamma, how can my life be before me if you die 
broken-hearted ?’ ’ 

“ Because you are young. You know that it would add 
tenfold bitterness to my already overflowing cup if I saw no 
chance for you, Belle, and the little ones. You may soon 
have to be mother and sister both. I forewarn you, because, 
as Roger says, you are strong as well as gentle, and you must 
not just drift helplessly toward we know not what. Oh, 
Millie, my poor crushed heart must have one consolation 
before it is at rest. Roger is not, and never will be, a weak 
man. It is not in his nature to give way to fatal habits. I, 
too, with a woman’s eye, have seen his deep, strong affection 
for you, and with a mother’s jealous love I have studied his 
character. He is a young giant, Millie, whom you uncon- 
sciously awoke to manhood. He comes of a sturdy, practi- 
cal race, and unites to their shrewdness a chivalric Southern 
heart and large brain. He doesn’t begin to know, himself, 
how much of a man he is, but the experience of life will fast 
develop him. He is one who will master circumstances, and 
not be moulded by them. Obstacles will only stimulate his 
will. Your prejudice and dislike have not made him falter 
a moment. In the heart of a girl like you, Millie, I truly 
believe that a new love for such a man will surely spring up, 
and grow and strengthen with each succeeding year, and you 
would be worthy of him. You could make him happy, and 


I AM so perplexed: 


395 


eventually add greatly to his success. He is sure to become 
eminent, and be burdened with many large affairs, and the 
home you could make for him would be a refuge and a 
resting-place from which he would go out daily, strong and 
refreshed. Let his friends say what they please at first. He 
has his own career to make, and in his choice of you he has 
shown how unerring and sound his instincts are, and you can 
prove them so, and will, I think, when time has given your 
morbid and unhappy heart its healthful tone. Mrs. Whea- 
ton has done much work at his uncle’s house, and Mrs. At- 
wood talks to her quite freely. Mrs. Wheaton says they are 
wealthy, although they live so plainly, and that Mr. Atwood, 
Roger s uncle, is wonderfully taken with the young man, 
and means to give him a chance to climb among the highest, 
if he continues to be so steady and persevering. Of course 
you know that Roger will never be anything else than steady. 
And Mrs. Wheaton also says that Mr. Atwood will, no 
doubt, leave everything to him, for he has no children.” 

‘‘I’m sorry you have told me this,” sighed Mildred ; “it 
would have been hard enough at best, but I should feel 
almost mercenary now.” 

“ Oh, Millie, you are too morbid and proud for anything, ” 
expostulated Mrs. Jocelyn, in whom no misfortune or sorrow 
could wholly blot out her old, mild passion for making good 
matches for her daughters — good matches in the right sense 
of the word — for she would look for worth, or what seemed 
worth to her, as well as the wealth that is too often considered 
solely. She had sought to involve Vinton Arnold by inno- 
cent wiles, and now, in pathetic revival of her old trait, she 
was even more bent on providing for Mildred by securing a 
man after her own heart. Love for her daughter, far more 
than ambition, was the mainspring of her motive, and surely 
her gentle schemes were not deserving of a very harsh judg- 
ment She could not be blamed greatW f or looking with 


39* 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


wistful eyes on the one ray of light falling on her darkening 
path. 

After a brief, troubled silence Mrs. Jocelyn resumed, with 
pathos and pleading in her voice, “ Millie, darling, if this 
could all be, it would brighten my last days. 

“There, there, mamma; as far as I can carryout your 
wishes, it shall be. I had already virtually promised it 
and I should be perverse indeed could I not do ali — all in 
my power to brighten your sad life. But, darling mamma, 
you must promise to live in return. A palace would be des- 
olate if you were not seated in the snuggest corner of the 
hearth. I’ll try to love him ; I know I ought to give my 
whole heart to one who is so worthy, and who can do so 
much to brighten your life.” 

“ Blessings on you, Millie. You will soon learn to return 
all his affection. You are both young, and it will probably 
be years before you can be married. In the mean time you 
will have a protector and friend who will have the right to aid 
you. You were slowly dying for want of air and change and 
hope. You worked all day, and shut yourself up in this 
miserable place at night, and it could not last ; as your 
affianced he can take your part against the world, and protect 
Belle ; and during the years while he is making his way up- 
ward, you will learn to love him. You will become interested 
in his studies, hopes, and prospects. You will encourage, 
and at the same time prevent undue application, for no man 
knows how to take care of himself. He can be our deliverer, 
and you his good angel. Your relations and long engage- 
ment may not be exactly conventional ; but he is not con- 
ventional, neither is your need nor our sad fortunes. Since 
God has put within our reach this great alleviation of our sor- 
row, ought we to refuse it ?” 

“ Set your mind at rest, mamma ; you have made duty 
plain. I will do my best, and it now all rests with Roger.’ 


” I AM SO PERPLEXED 


397 


“ Millie, you are a dear, good child,” said the mother 
brokenly, and with smiles shining like light through her 
tears ; and after a close embrace she went out, closing the 
door that the weary girl might rest at last. 

When alone, Mildred turned her face to the wall and 
breathed, like the lowest and saddest note of a wind-touched 
harp, “ Vinton, Vinton Arnold, farewell forever. I must 
look for you no more — I must think of you no more. Oh, 
perverse heart, be still !” 

But a decision had been reached, and her perplexed mind 
had at last found the rest of a fixed resolve. Then nature 
asserted her right, and she slept long and heavily. When 
she awoke, the lamp was lighted in the one living-room, 
from which came the sounds of an unsteady step and a thick, 
rough voice. She trembled, for she knew that her father had 
come home again intoxicated- — an event that was becoming 
terribly frequent of late. She felt too weak and nerveless to 
go out and look upon their living disgrace, and lay still with 
long, sighing breaths. “ Even Mr. Atwood will turn from 
us in disgust, when he realizes papa’s degradation,” she 
thought. ‘ ' Alas ! can it be right to cloud his bright young 
life with such a shameful stain ! Oh, if it were not selfish, I 
could wish to die and escape from it all. ’ ’ 

At last the heavy, shuffling step passed into the adjoining 
bedroom, and soon the wretched man was in stupor. As 
Mildred came out she saw Belle, who had returned from her 
work, looking toward the room in which her father slept, with 
a lowering, reckless expression that made her sister shudder. 

Mildred tried to banish evil thoughts by putting her arm 
• round the young girl’s neck and kissing her between the 
eyes. “ Don’t look so, Belle,” she whispered. 

“ Where is that to end r Belle asked, in a strange, harsh 
voice, pointing toward the room. “ Millie, I can’t stand 
this life much longer/ * 


39 » 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“Oh, Belie, don’t forget there is a heaven beyond this 
life. ’ * 

“ It’s too far beyond. Look here, Millie ; since God 
don’t answer mamma’s prayers, I haven’t much faith in any- 
thing. See what undeserved trouble came upon you too. 
If it hadn’t been for Roger you would have been in prison 
to-night, and we’d have been alone here with a drunken 
father. How can one have faith and try to be good when 
such things happen ?’ ’ 

“Belle,” said Mildred, with a solemnity that made the 
reckless, discouraged girl turn pale, “you had better take 
& knife from that table and stab mamma than do anything 
wrong. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, hush !” whispered Belle, for Mrs. Jocelyn now en- 
tered with the children, whom she was glad to have away 
when the unnatural father returned, even though she knew 
they were with the wild young Arabs of the tenement 


A WOMAN'S HEART. 


399 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A woman’s heart. 

M RS. JOCELYN and her daughters were silent and 
depressed during their meagre supper, for they never 
could become accustomed to the terrible skeleton in their 
household. When Mr. Jocelyn confined himself solely to 
opium he was not so revolting, but common, beastly intoxi- 
cation was unendurable. They felt that it was brutalizing 
his very soul, and becoming a millstone around their neck? 
which must drag them down to some unknown abyss of in 
famy. Mechanically they went through the motions of eat- 
ing, the mother and daughters forcing down the little food 
they could afford, and the children ravenously devouring all 
that was given to them. As Mildred saw the mother trying 
to slip unnoticed her almost untasted supper from her plate 
to Fred’s, she laid a hand upon her arm and said, 

“ No, mamma ; remember you are to live,” she added in 
a low whisper, and the poor creature tried to smile and was 
submissive. 

With a pathetic maintenance of their old-time habits, they 
had scarcely cleared away the supper-table, put the children to 
rest, and made the poor little place as neat and inviting as 
possible, when Mr. Wentworth appeared, followed by Roger. 
Mildred had been expecting the latter witn trepidation, Belle 
with impatience ; and the hard, lowering look on the face of 
the young girl gave way to one of welcome and pleasure, for 
if Belle’s good moods were apt to be transient, so were her 
evil ones, and the hearty, healthy spirits of the young fellov' 


400 


WITHOUT A HOME* 


were contagious. Mildred was greatly relieved to see Mr. 
Wentworth, for while she had fully resolved to yield to 
Roger’s suit, her heart, despite her will, welcomed delay. 
She was also glad that her pastor was present, for she could 
now show her strong gratitude without fear of immediate and 
embarrassing results. She was therefore more prompt even 
than Belle, and, taking the young man’ s hand in both of her 
own, she said, with tears in her eyes, 

“ Why didn’t you let me thank you this morning ? My 
gratitude has been growing every moment, and you must 
take it all or I shall sink under it. Mr. Wentworth, I should 
have been in some horrible pflison to-night, with my heart 
breaking from sorrow and shame, if it were not for this kind, 
generous friend, Mr. Atwood. I long cherished an un- 
reasoning prejudice against you, and showed it openly. 
You have taken a strange revenge. No Southern gentleman 
could have acted more nobly, and a Southern girl could not 
use stronger praise than that. ’ ’ 

Roger’s hand, usually so strong and steady, trembled. 
These words, warm from the heart of the girl who had 
hitherto been so distant and unapproachable, almost took 
away his breath. ‘ ‘ Please don’ t, ' ’ he faltered. ‘ ‘ Such 
gratitude — such words — from you oppress me. I don’t 
deserve such thanks. Any decent man would have been 
glad to save one who was so good and so wronged, and I 
shall always regard it as the luckiest event of my life that I 
happened to be the one to aid you. Oh, you don’ t know, 
you never can know what immense good-fortune it was. M 
Then, as if fearing he might lose his self-control, he broke 
hastily away to greet Mrs. Jocelyn, but Belle caught him with 
the impulse of the warm-hearted sister she had become, and 
throwing her arm around his neck exclaimed, “I’m going 
to pay you with the best coin I have.” And she kissed him 
vjain and again. 


A WOMAN'S HEART. 


401 


** Oh, Jupiter !" gasped the blushing youth. “ Bless that 
floor-walker and all his deviltry ! I shall let him off just a 
little for this." 

‘ * No, don' t. I’ 11 give you another kiss if you’ 11 get even 
with him, " Belle whispered. 

“ It’ s a bargain, ’ ’ he said in her ear, and Belle ratified the 
compact immediately. 

“ Oh," thought Mildred, in the depths of her heart, “ if 
it were only Belle instead of me !" 

Mrs. Jocelyn’ s greeting was scarcely less demonstrative than 
Belle’s, but there was a motherly tenderness in it that brought 
tears into the young fellow' s eyes. ‘ ‘ Blessings on you, my 
dear good boy," she murmured, “ and a mother’s blessing 
will do you no harm." 

“ Look here," said Roger brusquely, “ if you don’t let 
up on a fellow I shall make a confounded fool of myself . ' 3 
And his lip quivered as if he were a boy in truth. 

Mr. Wentworth, who in their strong feeling had been quite 
ignored, at first looked on with smiling sympathy. Mildred 
had given him the hand that Roger released, and holding it 
in a warm clasp he did not speak at first, but watched a 
scene that had for him the attractions of a real drama. He 
now did not help Roger much by saying, in his hearty way, 
“ That’s right ; lay it on strong ; he deserves all, and more. 
Miss Mildred, I have been yellow with envy for the last two 
hours because I was absent. I would have eulogized you so 
in court that the judge would have addressed you as Saint Mil- 
dred, and yet it’s but honest to say that you would have gone 
to jail like many a saint before you had not Roger got hold 
of the facts which enabled the judge to prove you innocent. 
The law is awfully matter-of-fact, and that lace on your per- 
son had to be accounted for. 

“ Yes, yes," cried Belle, “ tell us everything. We’ve 
been dying with curiosity all day, and you’ve been so mys- 


402 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


terious and important, and have put on such airs, that you 
quite awed me. Seems to me that for a country boy you are 
blossoming fast. ' ’ 

“ It isn’t necessary for a country boy to be a fool, espe- 
cially when he has eyes,” replied Roger in an off-hand way. 
“It’s all simple enough. I happened to be passing the store 
where Miss Mildred — ” 

“ Happened to be passing ! How often did you happen 
to pass ?” Belle interrupted, with a face full of mischief. 

“ You are not a judge, ma’am, and so can’t cross-ques- 
tion,” he answered, with a quick blush but a defiant little 
nod, “ and if you were, no one is obliged to incriminate 
himself. 1 was merely passing, and the movements of that 
scamp, Bissel, slightly awakened my curiosity, and I followed 
him and the girl. I was exceedingly fortunate, and saw 
enough to enable the judge to draw from the girl the whole 
story. Now you see what a simple, prosaic part I played. 
Miss Jocelyn, in keeping up so bravely through scenes and 
experiences that were perfectly horrible to her, is the heroine 
of the piece. By Jove ! — beg your pardon, Mr. Wentworth 
— it was as good as a play to see how she looked her inno- 
cence into the heart and mind of the judge. I saw the judi- 
cial frost in his eyes melting like two icicles on the south side 
of a barn. Oh, the judge could see as far into a millstone 
as the next man, ' ’ he continued, laughing, as if he relished 
the memory hugely. “ After those horrid old hags were 
sent along so fast to where they belonged, he looked when 
Miss Jocelyn appeared as if a whole picture gallery were 
before him. He could keep up his official regulation man- 
ner, but his eyes paid a certain prisoner many compliments.” 

“ Roger, you’ve got the eyes of a lynx,” said Belle, an<* 
Mildred was human enough to show the pleasure she felt at 
his words. 

” Nonsense,” replied the young fellow in sudden com 


A WOMAN'S HEART. 


403 


fusion. '* Any one who has learned to hunt well gets a 
quick eye. ' 

“ The judge’s eyes at least were not at all to blame/' 
added Mr. Wentworth, laughing, and looking at Mildred so 
kindly and admiringly that the color which was stealing into 
her face deepened rapidly. 4 4 Well, to come down to busi- 
ness. Roger and I have been to see your employers, and 
we talked to them rather strongly. While they insist that 
they were misled and not to blame, they felt remorseful, and 
we struck while they were in their regretful mood. They 
give you a week’s vacation, and send you twenty-five dollars 
as a small compensation for what you have suffered. ’ ’ 

44 I don’t want it,” cried Mildred indignantly. 

44 Oh yes, you do ; besides it’s only spoiling the Philis- 
tines. They had already discharged that scoundrel Bissel, 
and they intend prosecuting the girl. They apologize to 
you, and promise to raise your wages, but I think I can 
obtain enough sewing and fancy work to render it unneces- 
sary for you to go back unless you prefer it. I don’ t want 
to think of your being subjected to that barbarous rule of 
standing any longer. I know of a lady on Fifth Avenue 
who is a host if she once becomes interested in any one, and 
through her I think I can enlist enough people to keep you 
busy. I feel sure she will be our ally when she knows 
all.” 

44 Oh, if I could only stay with mamma and work at home, 
I should be so glad,” was the young girl’s response. 

4 4 Well, I must have one promise first, and your conscience 
should lead you to make it honestly. You must give me 
your word that you will not shut yourself up from light, air, 
and recreation. You must take a walk every day ; you 
must go out with your sister and Roger, and have a good 
time as often as possible. If I find you sewing and moping 
here all the time, I shall feel hurt and despondent. Miss 


4*4 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


Millie, the laws of health are just as much God's laws as tht 
Ten Commandments/* 

“ 1 feel you are right," she faltered. Then she covered 
her face with her hands and sobbed, “ But papa, papa. 
Mr Wentworth, since all know it now, you must know 
the truth that is worse than death to us. I feel as if I wanted 
to hide where no one could ever see me again ; I fear we 
do Mr. Atwood a wrong in permitting him to be so friendly." 

Roger towered up until he ‘ ‘ looked six feet six, * as Belle 
remarked afterward, and, coming straight to the speaker, he 
took her hand and said, “ Miss Jocelyn, when I’m ashamed 
to be seen with you and Belle, V 11 strike hands with Bissel in 
the sneak-thieving line. I ask for no prouder distinction 
than to be trusted by your mother and by you. ’ ’ 

"Roger has settled that question, and shown himself a 
sensible fellow," resumed Mr. Wentworth, with an emphatic 
and approving nod. " Since you have spoken of a subject 
so deeply painful, I will speak plainly too. There are plenty 
of people, I admit, who treat the families of wrong-doers as 
if their unspeakable misfortune were their fault ; and in a 
certain sense this tendency is wholesome, for it has a great 
restraining influence on those tempted to give way to evil. 
But this tendency should not be carried to cruel lengths by 
any one, and there are those who are sufficiently just to dis- 
criminate and feel the deepest sympathy — as I do. While it 
would be in bad taste for you and Miss Belle to ignore this 
trouble, and flaunt gayly in public places, it would be pos- 
itively wicked to let your trouble crush out health, life, and 
hope. You are both young, and you are sacredly bound to 
make the best and the most of the existence that God has 
bestowed upon you. You have as good a right to pure air 
and sunshine as I have, and as good a right to respect while 
you maintain your present character. It would do your 
father no good, it would break your mother's heart, if you 


A WOMAN'S HEART. 


405 


followed your morbid impulses. It would only add to your 
father’ s remorse. I fear his craving for the poisons that are 
destroying him has become a disease, and that it is morally 
impossible for him to refrain. ’ ’ 

“ Do you think — would it be possible to put him into an 
institution,” Mildred faltered. 

“ Well, it would be expensive, and yet if he will go to one 
and make an honest effort to be cured, perhaps the money 
might be raised. ’ ’ 

“Oh,” cried Mildred, “we’d starve almost, we’d work 
night and day to give him a chance. ’ ' 

“ The money shall be raised,” said Roger quietly. “ I've 
saved nearly all my wages, and — ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Atwood,” burst out Mildred impetuously, 
“ this would be far better than saving me from prison. I 
would pay you back every penny if I toiled all my life, and 
if papa could be his old self once more we would soon regain 
all that we have lost.” Then a sudden passion of sobs 
shook her slight form. * * Oh, ’ ’ she gasped brokenly, ‘ * I 
could die — I could suffer anything to save papa. 

“ Mr. Wentworth,” said the wife, with a look in her large 
tearless blue eyes which they never forgot, “ we will live in 
one room, we’ll spend only enough for bare existence, if 
you’ll help us in this matter.” Then putting her arms 
around Roger’s neck she buried her face on his breast and 
murmured, “ You are like a son to me, and all there is left 
of my poor crushed heart clings to you. If I could see 
Martin the man he was, I could die in peace.” 

“ He shall have the chance of the best and richest,” said 
Roger brokenly. “I ask nothing better than to have a 
hand in saving such a man as Mr. Jocelyn must have been.” 

Then was Roger’s hour and opportunity, and he might at 
that time have bound Mildred to him by vows that the gin 
would sooner perish than break. Indeed in her abounding 


*o6 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


gratitude, and with every generous, unselfish chord in hei 
soul vibrating, even his eyes could have been deceived, and 
he might easily have believed that he had won her heart. But 
there was neither policy nor calculation in his young enthusi- 
asm. His love truly prompted his heart, but it was a heart 
abounding in good, unselfish impulses, if sufficient occasion 
called them forth. He loved Mrs. Jocelyn and Belle scarcely 
less than his own mother and sister, and >et with a different 
affection, a more ideal regard. They appealed to his imagi- 
nation ; their misfortunes made them sacred in his eyes, and 
aroused all the knightly instincts which slumber in eveiy 
young, unperverted man. Chief of all, they belonged to Mil- 
dred, the girl who had awakened his manhood, and to whom 
he had felt, even when she was so cold and prejudiced, that 
he owed his larger life and his power to win a place among 
men. Now that she was so kind, now that she was willing 
to be aided by him in her dearest hopes, he exulted, and life 
grew rich in tasks for which the reward seemed boundless. 
The hope would come to him, as Mildred rose to say good- 
by with a look that he had never seen on any human face 
before, that she might soon give him something warmer and 
better than gratitude ; but if she could not soon, he would 
wait, and if she never could return his love, he proposed to 
be none the less loyal as a friend. 

Indeed the young girl’s expression puzzled him. The 
old pride was all gone, and she gave him the impression of 
one who is conquered and defenceless, and who is ready to 
yield anything, everything to the victor. And this ill-defined 
impression was singularly true, for she was in a passion of 
self-sacrifice. She felt that one who had been so generous 
and self-forgetful had a right to all that a true man could 
ask, and that it would be base in her to refuse. The greater 
the sacrifice the more gladly she would make it, in order that 
she too might pr^ve that a Southern girl could not be sur- 


A WOMAN ’ 5 HE A R T. 


407 


passed in noblesse oblige by a Northern man. She was in one 
of those supreme moods in which men and women are swayed 
by one dominant impulse, and all other considerations be- 
come insignificant. The fact that those she loved were look- 
ing on was no restraint upon her feeling, and the sympa- 
thizing presence of the clergyman added to it. Indeed her 
emotion was almost religious. The man who had saved her 
from prison and from shame — far more : the man who was 
ready to give all he had to rescue her fallen father — was be- 
fore her, and without a second’s hesitation she would have 
gone into a torture-chamber for the sake of this generous 
friend She wanted him to see his absolute power. 
She wanted him to know that he had carried her preju- 
dice, her dislike by storm, and had won the right to dic- 
tate his terms. Because she did not love him she was so 
frank in her abandon , . If he had held her heart’s love 
she would have been shy, were she under tenfold greater 
obligations. She did not mean to be unmaidenly — she 
was not so, for her unconscious delicacy saved her — but 
she was at his feet as truly as the “ devotee” is prostrate and 
helpless before the car of Juggernaut. But Roger was no 
grim idol, and he was too inexperienced, too modest to un- 
derstand her. As he held her throbbing palm he looked a 
little wonderingly into her flushed face and tear-gemmed 
eyes that acknowledged him lord and master without reserve ; 
then he smiled and said in a low, half-humorous tone, “ I 
sha’n’t be an ogre to you — you won’t be afraid of me any 
longer, Miss Mildred ?” 

“ No,” she replied impetuously ; “ you are the truest and 
best friend a woman ever had. Oh, I know it— I know it 
now. After what you said about papa, I should despise 
myself if I did not know it.” 

She saw all his deep, long-repressed passion leap into his 
face and eyes, and in spite of herself she recoiled from it as 


4-oS 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


from a blow. Ah, Mildred, your will is strong, your grati- 
tude is boundless, your generous enthusiasm had swept you 
away like a tide, but your woman's heart is stronger and 
greater than all, and he has seen this truth unmistakably. 
The passion died out of his face like a flame that sinks down 
to the hidden, smouldering fire that produced it. He gave 
her hand a strong pressure as he said quietly, “ I am indeed 
your friend — never doubt it ;” then he turned away de- 
cidedly, and although his leave-taking from Mrs. Jocelyn 
and Belle was affectionate, they felt rather than saw there was 
an inward struggle for self-masterv, which made him, while 
quiet in manner, anxious to get away. 

Mr. Wentworth, who had been talking with Mrs. Jocelyn, 
observed nothing of all this, and took his leave with assur- 
ances that they would see him soon again. 

Mildred stood irresolute, full of bitter self-reproach. She 
took an impulsive step toward the door to call Roger back, 
but, checking herself, said despairingly, “ I can deceive 
neither him nor myself. Oh, mamma, it is of no use.” 
And indeed she felt that it would be impossible to carry out 
the scheme that promised so much for those she loved. As 
the lightning flash eclipses the sun at noonday, so all of her 
gratitude and self-sacrificial enthusiasm now seemed but pale 
sickly sentiment before that vivid flame of honest love — that 
divine fire which consumes at touch every motive save the one 
for the sacred union of two lives. 

“ I wish I could see such a man as Roger Atwood look at 
me as he looked at you, ” said Belle indignantly. “ I would 
not send him away with a heartache. 

“ Would to Heaven it had been you, Belle 1” replied 
Mildred dejectedly. “ I can’t help it — I’m made so, and 
none will know it better than he.” 

“ Don’t feel that way,” remonstrated Mrs. Jocelyn ; 
“ time and the thought of what Roger can do for us will 


A WOMAN'S HEART. 


409 


work great changes. You have years before you. If he 
will help us save your father — ’ ’ 

“ Oh, mamma, I could shed for him all the blood left in 
my body. ’ ’ 

“ Nonsense 1” cried the matter-of-fact Belle. “ He doesn't 
want your blood ; he only wants a sensible girl who will 
love him as he deserves, and who will help him to help us 
all." 

Mildred made a despairing gesture and went to her room. 
She soon reappeared with a quilt and a pillow, and placing 
them on the floor beside the low bed in which the children 
slept, said, “ I'll stay here, and you take my place with 
Belle, mamma. No," she added resolutely, as her mother 
began to remonstrate ; “ what I resolve upon I intend to do 
hereafter, even to the least thing. You shall not go near the 
room where papa is to-night." 

Throughout the evening, while love, duty, and generous 
sympathy planned for his redemption ; throughout the long 
night, while the sad-hearted wife prayed for success in their 
efforts, the husband and father lay shrouded in the heavy, 
ray? ess darkness of a drunken stupor. 


4io 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

STRONG TEMPTATION. 

* TELL, I must admit that I have rarely been sc 
VV touched and interested before/’ said Mr. Went- 
worth, as he and Roger walked homeward together ; * ‘ and 
that is saying much, for my calling brings human life before 
me in almost every aspect. Mildred Jocelyn is an unusual 
girl. Until to-day I thought her a trifle cold, and even in- 
capable of very deep feeling. I thought pride — not a com- 
mon pride, you know, but the traditional and proverbial 
pride of a Southern woman — her chief characteristic, but the 
girl was fairly volcanic with feeling to-night. I believe she 
would starve in very truth to save her father, though of 
course we won’t permit any such folly as they are meditat- 
ing, and I do not believe there is any sacrifice, not involving 
evil, at which she would hesitate. She’s a jewel, Atwood, 
and in winning her, as you will, you will obtain a girl for 
whom a prince might well sue. She’s one of a thousand, 
and beneath all her wonted self-control and reserve she has 
as true and passionate a heart as ever beat in a woman’s 
breast.” 

“ Good-night,” said Roger, a little abruptly. “ I agree 
with all you can say in regard to Miss Jocelyn’s nobility, 
and I shall not fail her, nor shall I make bargains or condi- 
tions in my loyalty. The privilege of serving such a woman 
is enough. I will see you again soon,” and he walked 
rapidly down the street on which his uncle resided. 


STRONG TEMPTATION. 411 

Roger and Mr. Wentworth had become very good friends, 
and the latter had been of much service to the young fellow 
by guiding him in his reading and study. The clergyman 
had shown his usual tact in dealing with Roger. Never once 
had he lectured or talked religion at him, but he preached in- 
terestingly, and out of the pulpit was the genial, natural, hearty 
man that wins the respect and good-will of all. His inter- 
views with Roger were free from the faintest trace of religious 
affectation, and he showed that friendly appreciation and spirit 
of comradeship which young men like. Roger felt that he was 
not dealing with an ecclesiastic, but with a man who was as 
honest, earnest, and successful in his way as he ever hoped 
to be in his. He was therefore being drawn by motives that 
best accorded with his disposition toward the Christian faith 
— by a thorough respect for it, by seeing its practical value 
as worked out in the useful busy life of one who made his 
chapel a fruitful oasis in what would otherwise have been a 
moral desert. In his genuine humanity and downright hon- 
esty, in his care of people’s bodies as well as souls, and tem- 
poral as well as spiritual interests, the minister was a tower of 
strength, and his influence for good over the ambitious 
youth, now fast developing the character which would make 
or mar him for life, was most excellent. While Roger spoke 
freely to him of his general hopes and plans, and gave to 
him more confidence than to any one else, there was one 
thing that, so far as words were concerned, he hid from all 
the world — his love for Mildred. The sagacious clergyman, 
however, at last guessed the truth, but until to-night never 
made any reference to it. He now smiled to think that the 
sad-hearted Jocelyns might eventually find in Roger a cure 
for most of their troubles, since he hoped that Mr. Jocelyn, 
if treated scientifically, might be restored to manhood. 

Mr. Ezra Atwood, Roger’s uncle, sat in his small parlor 
far beyond his usual hour for retiring, and occasionally he 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


paced the floor so impatiently as to show that his mind was 
deeply perturbed. While his nephew had studied books he 
had studied his nephew, and in the process the fossilization of 
his heart had been arrested, and the strong, steady youth had 
suggested hopes of something like a filial relation to the child- 
less man. At first he had growled to himself, “ If the boy 
were only mine I’d make a man of him,” and then gradually 
the idea of adopting and making a man of him, had present* 
ed itself and slowly gained full possession of his mind. 
Roger was capable, persevering, and tremendously ambitious 
— qualities that were after the old man’s heart, and, after 
maintaining his shrewd furtive observation for months, he at 
last muttered to himself, “ I’ll do it, for he’s got the Atwood 
grit and grip, and more brains than any of us. His father is 
shrewd and obstinate enough, but he’s narrow, and hasn’t 
breadth of mind to do more than pinch and save what he 
can scratch out of that stony farm of his. I’m narrow, too. 
I can turn an honest penny in my line with the sharpest in 
the market, and I’m content ; but this young fellow is a 
new departure in the family, and if given a chance and kept 
from all nonsense he can climb to the top notch. There' i 
no telling how high a lawyer can get in this country if he has 
plenty of brains and a ready tongue. ’ ' 

Thus the old man's dominant trait, ambition, which he 
had satisfied in becoming known as one of the most solid 
and wealthy men of his calling, found in his nephew a new 
sphere of development. In return for the great favors which 
he proposed to confer, however, he felt that Roger should 
gratefully accept his wishes as absolute law. With the ego- 
tism and confidence of many successful yet narrow men, he 
believed himself perfectly capable of guiding the young 
fellow’s career in all respects, and had little expectation of 
any fortunate issue unless he did direct in all essential and 


STRONG TEMPTATION. 


413 


practical matters. Mr. Atwood worshipped common-sense 
and the shrewd individuality of character which separates 
a man from his fellows, and enables him to wrap himself in 
his own interests and pursuits without babbling to others or 
being impeded by them. Influenced by his wife, he was 
kind to the poor, and charitable in a certain methodical way, 
but boasted to her that in his limited circle he had no 
“ hangers-on/’ as he termed them. He had an instinctive 
antipathy to a class that he called “ ne’er-do-weels,” “ have- 
beens, ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ unlucky devils, ’ ’ and if their misfortunes and 
lack of thrift resulted from causes like those destroying Mr. 
Jocelyn he was sternly and contemptuously implacable tow- 
ard them. He was vexed that Roger should have bothered 
himself with the sick man he had discovered on shipboard 
the day before Christmas. ‘‘It was no affair of his,” he had 
grumbled ; but as the young fellow had been steady as a 
clock in his business and studies after Mr. Jocelyn had re- 
covered, he had given no further thought to these friends, 
nor had it occurred to him that they were more than passing 
acquaintances. But a letter from Roger’s father, who had 
heard of Mr. Jocelyn’s condition and of his son’s intimacy 
with the family, awakened the conservative uncle’s suspi- 
cions, and that very afternoon the well-meaning but garru- 
lous Mrs. Wheaton had told his wife all about what she re- 
garded as brilliant performances on the part of Roger at the 
police court. Mrs. Atwood was a kind-hearted woman, but 
she had much of her husband’s horror of people who were 
not respectable after her strict ideal, and she felt that she 
ought to warn him that Roger’s friends were not altogether 
desirable. Of course she was glad that Roger had been able 
to show that the young girl was innocent, but shop-girls liv- 
ing in low tenements with a drunken father were not fit com- 
panions for their nephew and possible heir. Her husband 
indorsed her views with the whole force of his strong, un- 


**4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


sympathetic, and ambitious nature, and was now awaiting 
Roger with the purpose of “putting an end to such non- 
sense at once.’ * The young man therefore was surprised to 
find, as he entered the hallway, that his uncle was up at an 
hour late for him. 

‘ ‘ I wish to see you, ’ ' was the prompt, brief greeting from 
Mr. Atwood, who was uneasily tramping up and down the 
small stiff parlor, which was so rarely used that it might 
almost have been dispensed with as a part of the residence. 
Roger came forward with some anxiety, for his uncle lowered 
at him like a thunder-cloud. 

“ Sit there, where I can see your face/' was the next curt 
direction. There was neither guilt nor fear in the frank 
countenance that was turned full upon him. “ I’m a man of 
few words,” he resumed more kindly, for Roger’s expres- 
sion disarmed him somewhat. “ Surely,” he thought, 

4 ‘ when the boy gets a hint of what I can do for him, he’ 11 
not be the fool to tangle himself up with people like the 
Jocelyns.” 

1 * Where have you been to-night ?’ ' he asked bluntly. 
Roger told him. “ Where were you last night and this 
morning ?’ ’ Roger briefly narrated the whole story, con- 
cluding, “ It’s the first time I’ve been late to business, sir.” 

The old man listened grimly, without interruption and then 
said, “ Of course I’m glad you got the girl off, but it’s bad 
management to get mixed up in such scrapes. Perhaps a 
little insight into court-room scenes will do you no harm 
since you are to be a lawyer. Now that the affair is over, 
however, I wish you to drop these Jocelyns. They are of 
no advantage to you, and they belong to a class that is ex- 
ceedingly disagreeable to me. I suppose you know what 
kind of a man Mr. Jocelyn is ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; but you do not know what kind of a woman 
Mrs. Jocelyn is. She is- 


STRONG TEMPTATION 


415 


* She is Jocelyn's wife, isn't she ?" 

“ Certainly ; but — " 

“ And the girl is his daughter. They live in a dowdy 
tenement, and are as poor as crows. ’ ’ 

“ Misfortune and the wrong of others might make all this 
true of us," began the youth impetuously ; “ and yet if old 
friends should turn their backs — " 

“ You are not an old friend," his uncle again interrupted, 
in his hard, business-like tones. 4 4 They are merely acci- 
dental acquaintances, who happened to board at your father's 
house last summer. They haven't the ghost of a claim upon 
you. It looks far more as if you were in love with the girl, 
and were making a romantic fool of yourself. ’ ' 

Roger’s face grew very white, but he controlled himself; 
and asked, 4 4 Uncle, have I ever treated you with dis- 
respect ?' ’ 

44 Certainly not ; why should you ?" 

4 ' With some right I may also ask why you treat me with 
such disrespect ?’’ 

The old man opened his eyes, and was somewhat taken 
aback by this unexpected question, and yet a moment’s re- 
flection showed him that he had given cause for it. He 
also misunderstood his nephew, and resumed, with a short 
conciliatory laugh, “ I guess I’m the fool, to be imagining 
all this nonsense. Of course you are too much of an At- 
wood to entangle yourself with such people and spoil your 
prospects for life. Look here, Roger. I’ll be frank with 
you, and then we’ll understand each other. You know I’ve 
neither chick nor child, and I’ve turned a good big penny 
in business. When you first came I thought you were a 
rattle-pated country boy that wanted a lark in the city, and I 
took you more to keep you out of mischief than for any 
other cause. Well, I’ve watched you closely, and I was mis- 
taken. You’ve got the stuff in you to make a man, and l 


4i6 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


see no reason why you should not be at the top of the heap 
before you reach my years, and I mean to give you a chance. 
You’ve got a little soft place in your head and heart, or you 
wouldn’t be getting yourself mixed up in other people’s 
troubles. I tell you what it is, my boy, a man who gets 
ahead in these times must strike right out for himself, and 
steer clear of all fouling with 4 ne’er-do-weels,’ as if they had 
a pestilence. Hook on to the lucky ones, the strong ones, 
and they’ll help you along. Now if you’ll take this course 
and follow my advice right along, I’ll give you a chance with 
the first You shall go to the best college in the land, next 
to the law-school, and then have money enough to enable’ 
you to strike high. By the time you are thirty you can marry 
an heiress. But no more Jocelyns and shop-girls who have 
been at station-houses, if you please. The girl may have 
been innocent of that offence ; but, plain man as I am, 1 
don’t like this style of people at all, and I know human 
nature well enough to be sure that they’ 11 try to tie them- 
selves on to you if they can. I’ve thought it all out in my 
slow way, and, since you’ve got it in you, I’m going to give 
you a chance to put the Atwood name where I can’ t, with all 
my money.” 

Roger was deeply moved, for he had no idea that his uncle 
was cherishing such far-reaching plans in his behalf. While 
he had little sympathy with the cold, selfish side of the pro- 
gramme, his strong ambition responded powerfully to the 
prospect held out to him. He knew that the hopes inspired 
were not vain, for his uncle was a man whose deeds always 
outstripped his words, and that his fortunes were practically 
assured if he would follow the worldly-wise policy to which 
he had listened. His ambition whispered, Mildred Joce- 
lyn does not love you, and never will. Even now, after you 
have done so much for her, and her gratitude is boundless, 
her heart shrinks from you. She may not be able to help it, 


STRONG TEMPTATION. 


417 


.but it is true nevertheless. Why should you throw away 
such prospects for the sake of one who loves another man, 
and who, until in a time of desperate need, treated you with 
undisguised coldness and dislike ? Besides, by yielding to 
,'our uncle’s will you can eventually do more for the family 
han if thrown on your own resources. ’ ’ It was indeed the 
{reat temptation of his life, and he wavered. 

‘ * Uncle, ’ ’ he said irresolutely, ‘ ‘ you have indeed opened 
a very alluring prospect, and I am grateful that you think so 
well of me, and that you are willing to do so much. Since 
you have been so frank with me, I will be equally so with 
you,” and he told him all about his relations with the Joce- 
lyns, and tried to make the shrewd old merchant understand 
that they were not common people. 

“ They are the most dangerous people of all,” he inter- 
rupted impatiently. “ Having once been up in the world, 
they think they are still as good as anybody, and are wild to 
regain their old position. If they had always been poor and 
commonplace, they would not be so likely to presume. 
What you say about the girl’s not caring for you is sheer 
nonsense. She’d marry you to-morrow if she could. The 
one idea of such people is to get out of the slough into 
which they have fallen, and they’ll marry out of it the first 
chance they get, and like enough they’ 11 do worse if they 
can’t marry. I tell you they are the most dangerous kind 
of people, and Southern at that. I’ve learned all about 
them ; the father has gone to the devil for good and all, and, 
with your feeling and weakness toward them, you’ll never be 
lafe a moment unless you drop them completely and finally. 
Come, young man, let this affair be the test between us. 
I’ve worked hard for nearly a life-time, and have a right to 
impose some conditions with what has been earned by forty 
years of toil, early and late. I never speculated once. 
Every dollar I had to spare I put in paying real estate and 


4 i8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


governments, and, Roger, I’m worth to-day a good hall 
a million. Ha, ha, ha ! people who look at the plain old 
man in the plain little house don’t know that he could afford 
a mansion on the Avenue better than most of them. This is 
between ourselves, but I want you to act with your eyes 
open. If you are such a soft-headed fool as to let that girl, 
who you admit does not like you or care a rap for you per- 
sonally, stand between you and such prospects, then I’m 
mistaken in you, and the sooner I find it out the better. 
Come, now, I’ll be good-natured and liberal in the matter, 
for young men will be a little addle-pated and romantic be- 
fore they cut their wisdom teeth. Through that English 
woman who works for your aunt occasionally you can see 
to it that these people don’t suffer, but beyond that you must 
drop them once for all. What is more, your father and 
mother take the same view that I do, and your filial duty to 
them requires what I ask. While we naturally refuse to be 
mixed up with such people, we are seeking chiefly to pro- 
mote your welfare ; for the worst thing that can happen to a 
young man starting in life is to have a helpless lot of people 
hanging on to him. So, come, give me your promise — the 
promise of an Atwood — and it will be all right. ’ ’ 

Roger was not a self-sacrificing saint by any means. 
Moreover, he had inherited , the Atwood characteristics suffi- 
ciently to feel all the worldly force of his uncle’s reasoning, 
and to be tempted tremendously by his offers. They 
promised to realize his wildest dreams, and to make the 
path to fame and wealth a broad, easy track instead of a long, 
steep, thorny path, as he had expected. He was virtually on 
the mountain-top, and had been shown “ all the kingdoms of 
the world and .the glory of them.” 

But against this brilliant background he saw the thin, pale 
face of Mrs. Jocelyn, as she looked up to him with loving 
trust and gratitude, and the motherly kiss that she had iip* 


STRONG TEMPTATION . 


419 


printed on his cheek was a seal to her absolute faith. He 
felt the pressure of Belle’s arm about his neck, and remem- 
bered his promise to give her a brother’s regard and protec- 
tion, and justly he feared that if deserted now the impulsive, 
tempted girl would soon meet shipwreck. She would lose 
faith in God and man. But that which touched him most 
nearly were his words to Mildred — words spoken even when 
she showed him most plainly that her heart was not his, and 
probably never could be — “ I am your friend ; never doubt 
it.” How false he would seem to them; how false and 
selfish to his friend, the great-hearted clergyman, who was 
like Christ himself in his devoted labors ; how false and 
base he would ever feel himself to be in his own soul ! 

For a time there was a terrible conflict in his breast as he 
paced the floor in long strides, with hands clenched and 
brow heavily contracted. His uncle watched him curiously 
and with displeased surprise, for that he could hesitate at all 
seemed to the worldly man an evidence of fatal weakness. 

Roger fought it out like a genuine Atwood, and was 
nearer akin to his uncle than the old merchant would ever 
suspect. His heart craved the kingdoms of the world un- 
speakably, but he now realized that he must barter for them 
his honor, his manhood, and love. Thus far he had a right 
to love Mildred, and it was not her fault she could not return 
it. But, poor and shamed as she was, he knew that she 
would despise him if he yielded now, even though he rose to 
be the foremost man of the nation. Not with any chivalric, 
uncalculating impulse did he reach his conclusion, but by 
the slow, deliberate reasoning of a cool-headed, sturdy race 
that would hold to a course with life-long tenacity, having 
once chosen it. 

Turning to his uncle, he asked quietly, “ What did you 
mean by ‘ the promise of an Atwood ’ ?’ ’ 

M You ought to know. Our family, for generations, have 


4-20 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


lived up among the granite hills of Forestville, and, although 
poor, our promises, whether spoken or written, are like 
them.” 

“I’m glad to hear you say that — I’m glad to be reminded 
of it,” his nephew replied. “ Well, my promise has already 
been given. I have promised that poor broken-hearted woman, 
Mrs. Jocelyn, that I’d try to help her through her terrible mis- 
fortunes. I’ve promised her daughter Belle that I’d give her 
a brother’s care and affection. I’ve promised the girl I love 
that I would at least be her friend, since I cannot be more. 
I’ll prove myself a true Atwood, worthy to sustain the family 
name and honor by keeping my promises, and if I break 
them, you yourself, deep in your heart, would despise me.” 

For a moment the old merchant was nonplussed, so 
adroitly and unexpectedly had Roger turned his words against 
him. Then, like most men suddenly put in a false position, 
he grew angry, and blurted out, “ Nonsense ! It doesn’t ap- 
ply at all. These artful women have come it over you — have 
entrapped you. ’ ’ The young man here made a strong ges- 
ture of protest. “ Oh, don’t try to deceive me,” his uncle 
proceeded, more loudly and passionately ; “I know the 
world. If I’d blindly made promises to adventurers who 
would compass my ruin, ought I to keep them ? If I find 
I’ve indorsed a forged check, ought I not to stop its pay- 
ment ? In the name of your parents and as your uncle, I 
protest against this folly, for I see well enough where it will 
end. Moreover, I tell you plainly that you must choose be- 
tween me and my offers, and that old sot of a Jocelyn and 
his scheming wife and daughters. If you can be carried 
iway by such absurdity, you are weaker than water, and the 
sooner you learn by bitter experience the better, for you cer- 
tainly belong to that class which only hard experience can 
teach. But I’d like to see those brazen-faced creatures and 
give them a piece of— 1 ” 


STRONG TEMPTATION. 


4 ' 2 > 


"‘Stop!" thundered Roger ; “ beware how you sayan* 
other word against those whom sorrow should render sacred. 
You know less about them than about heaven. Do you 
forget that I am of age ? You made me an offer, and 1 
thanked you for it honestly and gratefully. What’s more, I 
was base enough to be tempted by it. Oh, yes” — with a 
bitter laugh — 4 4 I was an Atwood enough for that. If you 
had not coupled it with the condition that I should, like a 
coward, desert helpless and unfortunate women to whom my 
word is given, I would have fulfilled your best hopes and 
ambitions, and have made your old age glad with my grate- 
ful love and service. In your cold-hearted worldliness you 
have overreached yourself, and you wrong yourself more 
than me, even though I perish in the streets. But I won't 
starve. Mark my words ; I’ 11 place the Atwood name where 
you can’t, with all your money, and I shall not make broken 
faith with those who trust me, the foundation of my for- 
tunes. ’ ' 

44 Very well, then,” said his uncle, who had quieted down 
into an anger of white heat ; 4 4 since you prefer those dis- 
reputable strangers to your family, go to them. I wash my 
hands of you, and shall write to your father to this effect to- 
night. I’m a prompt man and don’t dilly-dally.” 

“ Mrs. Jocelyn and her daughters are no more disreputable 
than you are, sir, and calling me ‘ soft-headed fool ’ doesn't 
make me one. I know the duty I owe my parents, and 
shall perform it. I shall write to them also. They shall 
hear both sides, and were your fortune multiplied a thou- 
sand times, I won’ t sell my manhood for it. Am I to have 
shelter another night, or do you wash your hands of me here 
and now ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, stay by all means, or you may find yourself in the 
same cell in which your paragon spent last night,” replied 
his uncle, whose rage now passed all bounds. 


422 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Those words are brutal/’ said Roger sternly, “and if 
you are not ashamed of them after thinking them over, you 
are not the man I took you to be,” and he stalked out of the 
room and out of the house, slamming the door after him. 

The old merchant sank into a chair, trembling with both 
anger and chagrin, for he felt that he had been worsted in 
the encounter. He did regret the words as soon as spoken, 
and a certain rude sense of justice made him feel, even in his 
excitement, that his nephew, although an egregious fool ot 
course, had been true to his sense of right and honor. He 
was assuredly the victim of a designing lot of women, but 
believing them to be true, his course had been manly, and 
the thought would come, “ Since he was so faithful to them, 
he would have been equally so to me, and he might have 
found the huzzies out in time to prevent trouble.” And 
now he had said words which in effect turned his brother’s 
son out of doors at midnight. With something like a groan 
and an oath he resolved not to write that night, and to see 
how he felt in the morning. His nephew on provocation 
had proved as great a Tartar as he knew himself to be, and 
he now remembered that the former had some excuse in his 
hot young blood, and that he had a right to choose against 
his offer, if fool enough to do it, without being reviled and 
insulted. 

After a wretched night he found on the breakfast-table a 
brief, cold note from Roger, saying that he would inform 
him in a day or two where to send his effects and such part 
of his salary as remained unpaid. The old man frowned, 
and the Atwood pride and obstinacy took possession of him 
like evil spirits. In grim reticence he resumed his old rou- 
tine and life, and again gave himself up to the mechanical 
accumulation and saving of money. 


NO “ DARK CORNERS." 


4*3 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

no “dark corners.” 

F ROM his uncle’s house Roger went to a small hotel and 
obtained a room in which to spend a sleepless night 
Alter the excitement of anger passed, he recognized the diffi- 
culties of his position. He was worse than friendless in the 
great city, for when he sought employment and gave an ac- 
count of his antecedents, people would ask suspiciously why 
he left his uncle. The reasons were of too delicate a nature 
to be babbled about in business offices. 

At first he was much depressed, and complained that 
“ luck was dead against him.” Moreover he felt that he 
had responded too harshly to his uncle, who, after all, was 
only trying to aid him in his cold-blooded way. Neverthe- 
less he, too, had his share of the Atwood pride and obstinacy, 
and he resolved that the man who had called him a “ soft- 
headed fool ’ ’ for sacrificing himself to his sense of honor 
and duty must apologize before there could be any recon- 
ciliation. His good sense led him to make one wise resolu- 
tion, and early in the morning he carried it out by making 
a clean breast of it to Mr. Wentworth. The good man 
listened with deep interest, and heartened the young fellow 
wonderfully by clapping him on the shoulder and saying, 

* You are made of the right stuff, Atwood, and although the 
material is yet a little raw and crude, experience and Chris- 
tian principle will temper it in time into the finest metal.” 

“ Don’t ascribe Christian principle to me,” growled 
Roger, “ for I’m tempted to swear like a pirate.” 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


424 

“ Very likely, and not without some reason. I occasion- 
ally feel a little that way myself, but I don't do it ; neither 
have you. ’ ' 

Roger stared. “You’re not a bit like a minister, ’’ he 
burst out 

“ Sorry to hear it.” 

“ That isn’t what I mean. You are a man. Our dom- 
inie up at Forestville was only a minister.’’ 

“ I have my share of human nature, Roger, and am glad 
of it, for I know from experience just how you young fellows 
feel. But it involves many a big fight. Christian principle 
doesn’t mean a cotton-and-wool nature, or a milk-and-water 
experience, to put it in a homely way. It’s Christian prin- 
ciple that makes Mildred Jocelyn, as you say, one of the 
bravest and best girls in the world. She’s worth more than 
all your uncle’s money, and you needn’t be discouraged, 
for you’ll win her yet. A young fellow with your pluck can 
make his way unaided, and thousands have done so without 
your motives or your ability. I’ll stand by you, for you are 
the kind of man that I believe in. To make your course 
completely blameless, you must write a long filial letter to 
your mother, explaining everything ; and if you’ll take my 
advice you will send something like this to your uncle 
and sitting down he scratched off the following words : 

“ On calmer reflection I perceive that your intentions 
toward me were kindly and friendly. I should have re- 
membered this, and the respect due to your years, and not 
have spoken so harshly. For all that it was not right for me 
to say, I apologize. At the same time it is my undoubted 
right and unwavering purpose to be guided by my own con- 
science. Our views of life and duty vary so widely that it 
will be best for me to struggle on alone, as I can. This, 
however, is no reason why we should quarrel, or forget th$ 
ties of blood which unite us, or our characters as gentlemea “ 


NO “DARK- CORNERS. 


4*5 

** Such a note will put you right with your own conscience 
and your people at home,” resumed Mr. Wentworth, “ and 
there's nothing like starting right.” 

Roger complied at once, for the clergyman's “ human 
nature” had gained his unlimited confidence. 

“ Now I’m going out,” said his friend. ‘‘You stay and 
make my study your own. There is paper, etc. I think I know 
of a room that you can obtain for a small sum from a nice, 
quiet family, and perhaps it will just suit you. I'll see ; but 
don’t take it if you don’t like it. You’ll stay and lunch with 
us, and we’ll drink to your success in generous cups of coffee 
that only my wife knows how to make, ’ ’ and he left Roger 
cheered, hopeful, and resolute. What was better still, the 
young man was starting right, as was well proved by the 
long, affectionate, yet firm and manly letter written to his 
mother. 

After a genial lunch, at which he was treated with a respect 
and kindness which did him a world of good, he went with 
Mr. Wentworth to see the room, and was well pleased with 
it, and he added his future address to the note to his uncle. 
He then said, 

“ I keep my promise about Mr. Jocelyn, and the sooner 
that man is put under treatment the better. ' ’ 

“Why, Roger!” exclaimed his friend, “you can't do 
anything now. ’ ’ 

“ I can do just what I promised. I have a hundred dol- 
lars in the bank, and there is about twenty-five still due me. 
With the latter sum I can get along until I can find em- 
ployment. ’ ’ 

“ Hold on, Roger ; it seems to me that your generosity 
is getting the better of you now. Circumstances have greatly 
changed since you made your promise.” 

“ I’ve not changed, and my promises don’t change with 
circumstances. It may be some time before you can raise 


426 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


the money, even if you can get it at all in these hard times, 
and it's something that ought to be done at once/' 

“ Give me your hand again, old fellow. The world v/ould 
say we were a pair of fools, but we’ 11 wait and see who’ ? 
right. Come to me at nine to-morrow morning/’ 

Mr. Wentworth had several things on hand that he meant 
to do, but he dropped everything and started for the offices 
of some lawyers whom he knew, determined to find a foot- 
hold at once for his plucky protege. Roger went to call on 
Mrs. Jocelyn, feeling that he would like to get the matter re- 
lating to nei husband lettled, so that he might give all his 
thought and energy to the problem of making his way unaided. 
In response to his knock a light step crossed the floor, and 
the door was opened a little, revealing Mildred’s face, then 
it was thrown open hospitably. “Oh, Mr. Atwood,’’ she 
exclaimed, “lam very glad to see you. Forgive me that I 
opened the door so suspiciously, but you have never lived in 
a tenement, and do not know what awful neighbors are often 
prowling around. Besides, I was alone, and that made me 
more timid. I am so troubled about something, and per- 
haps you can help me, for you seem to be able to help every 
one,’’ Mildred continued hastily, for she dreaded an em- 
barrassing silence between them unspeakably. “ I’ve been 
to see my employers in the hope they would forgive that poor 
girl who put the lace in my cloak, and they won’t. They 
were polite and kind to me, and offered me better wages if I 
would come back, but were relentless toward the girl, saying 
they 4 meant to break up that kind of thing once for all. ’ 
Don’ t you think something might be done ?’ ’ 

“ If you failed there would be no use of my trying,” said 
Roger, smiling. 4 4 I think it was wonderfully good of you 
to go on such an errand. ’ ’ 

44 I’ve had some lessons in goodness lately,” she replied, 
With a little friendly nod. “ As I talked with those stem 


NO “ DARK CORNERS." 


437 


men, I realized more than everwnat an escape I’ve had, and 
I’ve thanked you in my heart a thousand times/’ 

The young fellow looked as if he had been repaid a thou- 
sand times, and wondered that he could have been so 
tempted by his uncle’s terms, for it now seemed impossible 
that he could ever do aught else than serve the sweet, sad girl 
who looked into his eyes with the trust and friendliness which 
he had sought for so long in vain. His face became so ex- 
pressive of his feelings that she hurried on to speak of another 
matter weighing on her mind. 

“Mr. Atwood,” she said hesitatingly, “ I have another 
trouble. You looked so vindictively at that Mr. Bissel 
in the court-room that I have feared you might do some- 
thing that you would afterward regret. I know how 
one with your honorable spirit would feel toward such a 
wretch, but, believe me, he is beneath your notice. I should 
feel so badly if you got into any trouble on my account 
Indeed it seems that I couldn’t stand it at all,” and she said 
it with so much feeling that he was honestly delighted. His 
spirits were rising fast, for this frank, strong interest in hia 
welfare, in contrast with her old constraint and coldness, 
was sweet to him beyond all words. 

With a mischievous and rather wicked look in his dark 
eyes, he said, “ You must leave that fellow to me. I’m 
not a saint as you are. ’ ’ 

Mildred proved that she was not altogether a saint by in- 
wardly relishing his spirit, for she never could overcome some 
of the traits of her Southern blood ; but she said, honestly 
and anxiously, ‘ ‘ I should feel very badly if you got into any 
trouble. 

“ That thought will make me prudent,” he replied grate- 
fully. “ You would never feel badly again about anything, 
if I had my way. 

“ I believe you, Mr. Atwood, and I can’t see why I 


4 2 « 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


not understand you better before,” said Mildred, the words 
slipping out almost before she knew it. ’ ’ 

‘ 4 I don’ t think you understand me yet, ’ ' he answered, 
very gently. 

She did not reply, but he saw her fingers trembling with 
nervous apprehension as she tried to go on with her sewing , 
he also saw that she was growing very pale. Indeed she had 
almost the sick, faint look of one who is about to submit to 
some painful operation. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Miss Mildred,” he remarked, after 
watching her keenly for a moment or two. She looked up 
and saw him smiling broadly at her. In answer to her per- 
plexed look he continued quietly, “ I can tell you what has 
been the matter between us, and what is the matter now — 
you are atraid of me. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Atwood — ” faltered Mildred, and then words failed 
her, and her pale face crimsoned. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t you think it would be best for us to understand 
each other, now that we are to be friends ?” he asked. 

“ Yes,” gasped the young girl faintly, fearing every 
moment that he would lose his self-control and pour out a 
vehement declaration of his love. She was prepared to say, 

‘ ' Roger Atwood, I am ready to make any sacrifice within 
my power that you can ask,” but at the same time felt that 
she could endure slow torture by fire better than passionate 
words of love, which would simply bruise the heart that could 
make no response. If he would only ask quietly, “Mil- 
dred, will you be my wife when the right time comes? I’ll 
be content with such love as you can give;” she would 
have replied with the calmness of an unalterable purpose, 

Yes, Roger, and I’ll do my best,” believing that years of 
effort might be crowned with success. But now, to have 
him plead passionately for what she could no more bestow 
than it she were dead, gave her an indescribable sense of 


NO " DARK CORNERS." 


429 


fear, pain, and repugnance ; and she cowered and shrank 
over the sewing which she could scarcely hold, so great was 
her nervous apprehension. 

Instead of the vehement declaration there came a low, 
mellow laugh, and she lifted her eyes and stared at him, her 
work dropping from her hands. 

Roger understood the situation so well, and was so 
thoroughly the master of it in his generous self-control and 
kindly intentions, that he should scarcely be blamed if he got 
out of it such bitter-sweet enjoyment as he could, and he 
said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “ Miss Millie, I wasn’t 
going to strike you. ’ ' 

“ I don’t understand you at all/' cried Mildred, with a 
pathetically perplexed expression and starting tears, for the 
nervous strain was becoming a little too prolonged. 

Roger became grave at once, and with a quiet, gentle 
manner he came to her side and took her hand. ‘ ‘ Will you 
be as honest with me as I shall be with you ?’ ’ he asked. 

“I’ll try to be.” 

“ Well, then, I’ll soon solve for you my poor little riddle. 
Miss Mildred, you know that I have loved you ever since 
you waked up an awkward, lazy, country fellow into the wish 
to be a man. ’ ' 

His words were plain enough now, surely, but she was no 
longer frightened, for he spoke in such a kindly natural voice 
that she looked him straight in the eyes, with a delicate bloom 
in her face, and replied, 

“ I didn’t wish to mislead you, Mr. Atwood, and I 
wouldn’t trifle with you.” 

“ You have been truth and honesty itself.” 

“No, I’ve not,” she answered impetuously ; “I cher- 
ished an unreasoning prejudice against you, and — and — 1 
disliked you, though why, I can't see now, and nobly yov 
have triumphed over both prejudice and dislike.” 


43 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


“ It will ever be the proudest triumph of my life ; but, 
Miss Mildred, you do not love me in the least, and I feai 
you never will. ’ ’ 

“ I am so sorry, so very sorry/’ she faltered, with crimson 
face and downcast eyes. 

“ I am, too ; but that which I want to say to you is, that 
you are not to blame, and I don’t blame you. I could not 
love a girl simply because she wanted me to, were such a 
thing possible, and why should I demand of you what I 
couldn’t do myself? All I asked in the first place — don’t 
you remember it in the old front walk at home ? — was friend- 
ship. Let us go back to that Let me become your sim- 
ple, honest friend, and help you in every way within my 
power. Don’ t let me frighten you any more with the dread 
of high tragedy. Now you’ve had all the declaration you 
ever need fear. I won’ t break loose or explode under any 
provocation. I can’t help my love, and you must not pun- 
ish me for it, nor make yourself miserable about it, as if it 
were a powder magazine which a kind word or look might 
touch off. I want to put your heart to rest, for you have 
enough to bear now, Heaven knows ; I want you to feel safe 
with me — as free from fear and annoyance as Belle is. I 
won’t presume or be sentimental. 

“ Oh, my perverse, perverse heart !” wailed Mildred. “ I 
could tear it out of my breast and throw it away in disgust 
I want to love — it would be a poor return for all that you are 
and have done for me — but it is of no use. I will not de- 
ceive one so true as you are, by even a trace of falseness. 
You deserve the love of the best woman in the world, and 
some day you’ 11 find her — ’ ’ 

“ I have found her,” he put in quietly. 

“ No, no, no !” she cried passionately ; “ but I am as 
nature made me, and I can’t seem to help myself. How 
strange it seems that I can say from the depths of my soul I 


NO " DARK CORNERS. 


4 31 


could die for you, and yet that I can’t do just the one thing 
you deserve a thousand times ! But, Roger, I will be the 
most devoted sister that ever a man had. ’ ’ 

“ No,” he said, smiling, “ that won’t answer at all. That 
wouldn’ t be honest, as far as I am concerned. Belle is my 
sister, but you can never be. I know you don’t love me 
now, and, as I’ve said, perhaps you never can, but I’m too 
persistent in my nature to give up the hope. Time may bring 
changes, and I’ve got years of up-hill work before I can 
think of marrying. You are in a self-sacrificing mood now. 
I saw it in your eyes and manner last night — I see it now. 
Mildred, I could take a very great advantage of you if I 
chose.” 

“ Indeed you could. You don’t knowhow generous you 
ire. You have conquered me, overwhelmed me by your 
kindness, and I couldn’t say No to anything in your nature 
to ask. ' ’ 

For a moment he looked sorely tempted, and then he said 
brusquely, “ I’ll put a spoke in that wheel. I’d give all the 
world for this little hand, but I won’t take it until your heart 
goes with it. So there !” 

The young girl sighed deeply. “You are right,” she 
murmured, “ when you give so much I can give so little.” 

“ That is not what I was thinking of. As a woman you 
have sacred rights, and I should despise myself if I tried to 
buy you with kindness, or take advantage of your gratitude. 
I’ll admit, too, since we are to have no dark corners in this 
talk, that I would rather be loved as I know you can love. 
I’d rather have an honest friendship than a forced affection, 
even though the force was only in the girl’s will and wishes. 
I was reading Maud Muller the other night, and no woman 
shall ever say of her life’s happiness, that but for me ‘ it 
might have been. 

“ I don’t think any woman could ever say that of you." 


43 2 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


‘‘Mildred, you showed me your heart last night, and It 
has a will stronger than your will, and it shall have its way.” 

The girl again sighed. “ Roger,” she said, “ one reason 
why I so shrank from you in the past was that you read my 
thoughts. You have more than a woman’s intuition.” 

*’ No,” he said, laughing a little grimly, “I’m not a bit 
feminine in my nature. My explanation may seem absurd 
to you, but it’s true, I think. I am exceedingly fond of 
hunting, and I so trained my eyes that if a leaf stirred or a 
bird moved a wing I saw it. When you waked me up, and 
I determined to seek my fortunes out in the world, I carried 
with me the same quickness of eye. I do not let much that 
is to be seen escape me, and on a face like yours thoughts 
usually leave some trace.” 

‘‘You didn’t learn to be a gentleman, in the best sense of 
the word, in the woods,” she said, with a smile. 

“ No, you and your mother taught me that, and I may 
add, your father, for when I first saw him he had the perfec- 
tion of manners.” He might also have referred to Vinton 
Arnold, whom he had studied so carefully, but he could not 
bring himself to speak of one whom in his heart he knew to 
be the chief barrier between them, for he was well aware that 
it was Mildred’s involuntary fidelity to her first love that made 
his suit so dubious. At his reference to her father Mildred’ s 
eyes had filled at once, and he continued gently, “ We un- 
derstand each other now, do we not ? You won’t be afraid 
of me any more, and will let me help you all to brighter 
days ?’ ' 

She put both of her hands in his, and said earnestly, ‘ No, 
I will never be afraid of you again, but I only half understand 
you yet, for I did not know that there was a man in the 
world so noble, so generous, so honest. You have banished 
every trace of constraint, and I’ 11 do everything you say. ' * 

There was a look of almost boyish pleasure on his face a a 


NO “ DARK CORNERS ” 


433 


she spoke, and in imitation of the heroes of the interminable 
old-time romances that once had formed the larger part of 
his reading, he was about to raise her hand to his lips when 
she snatched it away, and as if mastered by an impulse not 
to be controlled, put her arms around his neck and kissed 
him, then burst into tears with her head upon his shoulder. 

He trembled a moment, and said, in low tones, “ God 
bless you, Millie/' Then he gently placed her in her chair. 
“You mustn’t do that again,” he said gravely. “ With you 
it was but a grateful sisterly impulse, but if I were Samson 
I'd not be strong enough — well, you understand me. I 
don't want to give the lie to all I’ve said.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, Roger, Roger, ’ ' sobbed the girl, ‘ * I can do noth- 
ing for you. and yet you have saved me from shame and are 
giving us all hope and life.” 

“ You are responsible for all there is good in me,” he 
tried to say lightly, “ and I’ll show you in coming years if 
you have done nothing for me. Good-by now. It’s all 
right and settled between us. Tell Mrs. Jocelyn that one 
hundred dollars are ready as soon as she can induce her hus- 
band to take the step we spoke of. ’ ’ And he hastened away, 
feeling that it was time he retreated if he would make good 
the generous words he had spoken. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


<34 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“HOME, SWEET HOME!" 

H, Millie,” cried Mrs. Jocelyn, entering with the 



children and throwing herself into a chair, fatigued 
and panting from her walk and climb of the stairs, “ I’ve so 
much to tell you. Oh, I’m so distressed and sorry. It 
seems that evil has become our lot, and that we bring noth- 
ing but evil to others. You, too, look as if you had beeij 
crying as if your heart would break. 

“ No, mamma, I feel much better — more at rest than I 
have been for a long time. My tears have done me good.” 

“Well, I'm sorry I must tell you something that will 
grieve you dreadfully, but there’s no help for it. It does 
seem when things are going wrong in one’s life, there’s no 
telling where they’ll stop. You know Mrs Wheaton works 
for Roger’s aunt, Mrs. Atwood. Well, she was there this 
morning, and Mrs. Atwood talked dreadfully about us, and 
how we had inveigled her nephew into the worst of folly. 
She told Mrs. Wheaton that Mr. Atwood had intended to give 
Roger a splendid education, and might have made him his 
heir, but that he demanded, as his condition, that he should 
have nothing more to do with such people as we were, and 
how Roger refused, and how after a bitter quarrel the latter 
left the house at midnight. She also said that his uncle 
would have nothing more to do with him, and that his fam- 
ily at home would be almost equally angry. Oh, 1 feel as if 
I could sink into the earth with shame and worry. What 
shall we do ?” 


HOME, SWEET HOME r 


435 


“ Surely, mamma, there is some mistake. Roger was 
here much of the afternoon, and he never said one word 
about it, Mildred answered, with a troubled face. 

“ It’s just like him. He didn’t want to pain you with the 
news. What did he say ?” she asked, with kindling interest, 
and Mildred told her substantially all that had occurred. 

“ Well, Millie,” said her mother emphatically, “ you 
will be the queerest girl on the face of the earth if you can’ t 
love him now, for he has given up everything for you. He 
might have been richer than Vinton Arnold. ’ ' 

“ He must not give up anything,” said Mildred 
resolutely. “ There is reason in all things. He is little 
more than a boy in years, and he has a boy’s simplicity and 
unworldliness. I won’t let him sacrifice himself for me. 
He doesn’t know what he is doing. His aunt’s estimate of 
such people as we have become is correct, and I’ll perish a 
thousand times before I’ 11 be the means of dragging down 
such a man as Roger Atwood. If I knew where to find him 
I'd go and tell him so this moment.” 

That was a dreary hour in the poor little home, but worse 
things were in store for them, for, as Mrs. Jocelyn said, when 
things are going wrong there is a terrible logic about them, 
and malign events follow each other with almost inevitable 
sequence. All was wrong with the head of the family, and 
terrible were the consequences to his helpless wife and chil- 
dren. Mr. Jocelyn heard a rumor of Mildred’s experience 
in the police court, and he went to the place that day and 
obtained some account of the affair. More clearly and 
awfully than ever before he comprehended the depths into 
which he had fallen. He had not been appealed to — he had 
not even been told. He did not stop to consider how good 
the reasons were for the course his family had taken, but, 
blind with anger and despair, he sought his only refuge from 
the hell within his breast, and began drinking recklessly. By 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


436 

the time he reached die tenement where he dwelt he was in 
a state of wild intoxication. A man at the door called him a 
drunken beast, at which Mr. Jocelyn grasped him by the 
throat and a fierce scuffle ensued. Soon the whole popu- 
lous dwelling was in an uproar, while the man retreated, 
fighting, up the stairways, and his infuriated assailant fol- 
lowed with oaths and curses. Women and children were 
screaming, and men and boys pouring out of their rooms, 
some jeering and laughing, and others making timid and 
futile efforts to appease and restrain the liquor-crazed man. 

Suddenly a door opened, and a pale face looked out ; then 
a slight girlish figure darted through the crowd and clasped 
Mr. Jocelyn. He looked down and recognized his daughter 
Mildred. For a moment he seemed a little sobered, and 
then the demon within him reasserted itself. “ Get out of 
my way !” he shouted. “ I'll teach that infernal Yankee to 
insult a Southern officer and gentleman. Let me go, ’ ’ he 
said furiously, “ or I’ll throw you down the stairway,’ ’ but 
Mildred clung to him with her whole weight, and the men 
now from very shame rushed in and overpowered him. 

He was speedily thrust within his own doorway, and Mil- 
dred turned the key after him and concealed it. Little 
recked the neighbors, as they gradually subsided into quiet, 
that there came a crash of crockery and a despairing cry 
from the Jocelyns’ room. They had witnessed such scenes 
before, and were all too busy to run any risk of being sum- 
moned as witnesses at a police court on the morrow. The 
man whom Mr. Jocelyn had attacked said that he would see 
the agent of the house in the morning and have the Jocelyn 
family sent away at once, because a nuisance, and all were 
content with this arrangement. 

Within that locked door a terrible scene would have been 
enacted had it not been for Mildred’s almost supernatural 
courage, for her father was little better than a wild beast In 


• • HOME , ^ WEE T HOME V ’ 


43 * 

his mad rush forward he overturned the supper-table, and the 
evening meal lay in a heap upon the floor. The poor wife, 
with a cry in which hope and her soul itself seemed to depart, 
fell swooning on the children’s bed, and the little ones fled 
to the darkest comer of Mildred’s room and cowered in 
speechless fear. There was none to face him save the slight 
girl, at whom he glared as if he would annihilate her. 

Let me out !” he said savagely. 

** No,’ said the girl, meeting his frenzied gaze unwaver- 
ingly, “ not until you are sober.” 

He rushed to the door, but could not open it. Then 
turning upon Mildred he said, ‘ ‘ Give me the key— no words 
—or F 11 teach you who is master. ’ ’ 

There were no words, but only such a look as is rarely 
seen on a woman’s face. He raised his hand to strike her, 
but she did not shrink a hair’s breadth. “ Papa,” she said, 
in a low, concentrated tone, * * you called yourself a Southern 
gentleman. I did not dream you could strike a woman, 
even when drunk. ’ ’ 

The effect of her words was magical. His hand sank to 
his side. Then he raised it and passed it over his brow as if 
it all were a horrid dream. Without a word he went with 
unsteady step to his own room, and again Mildred locked 
the door upon him. 

Mrs. Jocelyn's swoon was long and death-like, and before 
Mildred could restore her, Belle, returning from her work, 
tried to enter, and finding the door locked called for admit- 
tance. When she crossed the threshold and saw the supper 
dishes broken and scattered on the floor ; when she saw her 
mother looking as if dead, the little ones crying at her side, 
and Mildred scarcely less, pale than the broken-hearted 
woman, with a desperate look in her blue eyes, the young 
girl gave a long, low cry of despair, and covering her face with 
her hands she sank into a chair murmuring, “ J can’t endurt 


43 8 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


this any longer — I’d rather die. We are just going to racfe 
and ruin. Oh, I wish I could die, for I'm getting reckless 
■ — and — and wicked. Oh, oh, oh ! — ” 

“ Belle, come and help me,” said Mildred, in the hard, 
constrained tones of one who is maintaining self-control by the 
utmost effort. Belle complied, but there was an expression 
on her face that filled her sister's soul with dread. 

It were well perhaps to veil the agony endured in the 
stricken household that night. The sufferings of such 
women as Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred cannot be portrayed in 
words, and the dark chaos that had come into poor Belle’s 
tempted, despairing, immature soul might well make her 
good angel weep. With a nature craving sunshine and pleas- 
ure like the breath of life, she felt herself being dragged hope- 
lessly into darkness, shame, and abject poverty. The poor 
child was not deliberately contemplating evil — she was scarcely 
capable of doing good or evil deliberately — but a youth who 
had sought her once before, and of whom she had long been 
shy, was again hovering around her. 

She was more wary now, yet bolder, and received his ad- 
vances with a manner tinged with mocking coquetry. He 
was profuse with promises, and she tried to believe them, but 
in her heart she could not, and yet she did not repulse him 
with that stern, brief decision which forms the viewless, im- 
passable wall that hedges virtue. 

The sisters tried to remove the outward traces of their 
wrecked home, and mechanically restored such order as was 
within their power, but in their secret souls they saw their 
household gods overturned and trampled upon, and, witn 
the honor and manhood of their father, they felt that night as 
if they had lost everything. 

After they had quieted their mother and brought the poor 
creature a brief oblivion, Mildred made a passionate appeal 
to Belle to stand by her. The warm-hearted girl cried and 


'* HOME , SWEET HOME 1" 


439 


wrung her hands passionately, but all her trembling sister 
could obtain from her were the words, 

“ Millie, we are being dragged down I don't know 
where." 

Events followed rapidly. Before Mr. Jocelyn, sullen, 
nerveless, racked with headache and tortured with heartache, 
could leave his room on the morrow, the agent of the tene- 
ment served a notice on him to the effect that he must vacate 
his rooms at once ; that the other tenants complained of him 
as a nuisance ; and that he (the agent) would be content to 
lose the rent for the few days that had elapsed since the last 
regular payment if they would all go out at once. The angry 
reply was that they would move that day, and, without a 
word, he left his family in suspense. In the course of the 
forenoon he returned with a furniture van, and had so braced 
himself with opium that he was able to assist effectively, yet 
morosely, in the packing and removing of their fast-dwin- 
dling effects, for everything not essential had been sold. His 
wife and daughter did not remonstrate — they were too dis- 
pirited for that — but in dreary apathy did his bidding as far 
as their strength permitted, feeling meanwhile that any 
change could scarcely be for the worse. 

Mildred almost felt that it was for the better, for their new 
shelter was in a small rear tenement not far from the old 
mansion, and was reached from the street by a long covered 
passageway. To her morbid fancy it suggested the hiding- 
place that her heart craved. She now scarcely heeded the 
facts that the place was anything but cleanly and that 
their neighbors were more unpromising in appearance than 
those they had just left. Mrs. Jocelyn was so ill and weak 
that she ought not to raise her hands, and Mildred felt that 
her strength was unequal to the task of even arranging their 
household articles so as to make the poor little nook inhabit- 
able. She therefore went for their old stanch ally Mrs. 


440 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Wheaton, who returned with her and wrought such miracles 
as the wretched place permitted of. In just foreboding she 
shook her head over the prospects of her friends in such a 
neighborhood, for her experienced eyes enabled her to gauge 
very correctly the character of the people who lived across the 
hall and in the upper and lower stories. They were chiefly 
ignorant and debased Irish families, and the good woman’s 
fears were not wholly due to race antipathy. In the tene- 
ment from which they came, the people, although poor, were 
in the main stolid, quiet, and hard-working, but here on 
every side were traces and hints, even at midday, of degraded 
and vicious lives. The classes in the tenements appear to 
have a moral gravity or affinity which brings to the same level 
and locality those who are alike, and woe be to aliens who 
try to dwell among them. The Jocelyns did not belong to 
the tenement classes at all, and Mrs. Wheaton correctly fear- 
ed that the purgatory which was the corner-stone in their 
neighbors’ creeds would be realized in the temporal experi- 
ence of the Southern family. Now that the step had been 
taken, however, she concealed her anxieties, and did her best 
to avoid collisions with the burly, red-faced women and inso- 
lent children whose officious offers of help were but thin veils 
to a coarse curiosity and a desire for petty pilfering. Mildred 
shuddered at the people about her, and was cold and brief in 
her words. As it was, Fred nearly brought on general hos- 
tilities by resisting a shock-headed little urchin who had not 
the remotest regard for the principles of vieum and tuum. As 
the sun declined the general verdict of the neighbors was, 
“ They thinks themselves too foine for the loikes o’ us, but 
we’ll tache ’em.” 

After Mrs. Wheaton had departed with many misgivings, 
Mildred took her father aside and told him plainly what 
had occurred the evening before. He sat with his face 
buried in his hands, and listened without a word. Indeed, 


HOME , S WEE T HOME /’ 9 


44 * 


he was so overwhelmed with shame and remorse that he was 
speechless. ‘ ‘ Papa, look at me, ’ ’ she said at last. 

Slowly he raised his bloodshot, fearful eyes to hers, and 
the expression of his child’s face made him tremble. 

“ Papa,” she said slowly, and her tones were both sad 
and stern, “ you must never come home drunk again. 
Another such scene might cost mamma her life. If you will 
take opium, we cannot help it, but you must drink no more 
vile liquor. I have now learned from bitter experience what 
the latter means, and what it must lead to. I shall not fail 
in love and duty to you, but I cannot permit mamma, Belle, 
and the children to be utterly destroyed. You may do some 
wild, reckless deed that would blast us all beyond remedy ; 
therefore, if you have a particle of self-control left, let 
rum alone, or else we must protect ourselves. We have en- 
dured it thus far, not with patience and resignation, but in a 
sort of apathetic despair. This apathy has been broken. 
Belle is becoming reckless, mamma is dying of a broken 
heart, and the little ones are exposed to influences that 
threaten to blight their lives. There must be some change 
for the better. We must at least be relieved from the fear of 
bodily harm and the intolerable shame of such scenes as oc- 
curred last night. In our hard struggle we must find some 
kind of a refuge and some degree of quiet and peace in what 
we call home. It is no kindness to you to endure in silence 
any longer, and I now see that it will be fatal to those we 
both love. You may not be able to refrain from opium, but 
you can and must give up liquor. If you cannot, and there 
is a remedy in the land, we must avail ourselves of it. I do 
not know what kind of a place you have brought us to, but 
I feel sure that we shall need protection. If you should come 
home again as you did last night, I am satisfied, from the 
looks of the people in this house, that we should have a scene 
of violence that I shudder to think of. You had better—it 


442 


W I THOU 7 A HOME . 


would be more merciful to stab mamma to her heart than to 
cause her death by drunkenness.” 

Her words were not threatening, but were spoken with the 
calmness of inexorable resolve, and he sat before her with an 
ashen face, trembling like an aspen, for it was like the Day 
of Judgment to him. Then in gentler and pleading accents 
she told him of their plan to place him under skilful treat- 
ment, and besought him to yield himself up to the care of 
one who had won much reputation in dealing with cases like 
his own ; but all the encouragement she could obtain were 
the words, “Til think of it.” 

The memory of those fearful days on shipboard, when he 
was without morphia, made him recoil with unspeakable 
dread from a like ordeal again, but he promised earnestly 
that he would indulge no more in liquor. With the cunning 
of an opium maniac he understood his danger, knowing that 
further scenes of violence would lead to his arrest and im- 
prisonment. Of his gentle wife he had no fears, but this 
frail, resolute girl subdued him. He saw that he was driving 
a strong nature to desperation — saw it with all the agony and 
remorse of a naturally good father whose better nature was 
bound hand and foot by depraved appetites. He was con- 
scious of the terrible wrong that he was inflicting on those for 
whom he once would have died to shield them from a breath 
of dishonor. But, come what might, he must have opium 
now, and to counteract the words of his daughter he took 
enough morphia to kill all the wretched inmates of the tene- 
ment. Under its slight exhilaration he felt some hope of 
availing himself of the proposition that he should go to a 
curative institution, and he half promised that he would be- 
fore long. At this point the painful interview ended, and 
Mildred went for Belle, who as yet had no knowledge of their 
change of abode. 

As the two girls returned, in the dusk of evening, to the 


“HOME, SWEET HOME!" 


443 


long dark passageway that led to the tenement in which they 
now had rooms, Mildred trembled with fear as she saw that 
its entrance was surrounded and blocked by a group of rough- 
looking young men and boys. Belle pushed boldly through 
them, although they leered, laughed, and made coarse jests. 
Mildred followed shrinkingly, with downcast eyes. “ We’ll 
tache ’em to be neighborly," were the last words she heard, 
showing that the young ruffians had already obtained their 
cue from their depraved and low-lived parents. 

They looked forward to a dismal evening, but a loyal 
friend came to their rescue. Roger, having arranged the 
room selected for him by Mr. Wentworth, could not resist 
the temptation to see those who were ever uppermost in his 
thoughts. In dismay and anxiety he learned of their hasty 
removal and something of the causes which led to it. From 
the janitor he obtained their present address, and the appear- 
ance of his broad shoulders and fearless face had a restrain- 
ing influence on the mischief-making propensities of the 
rowdies who kennelled in the vicinity. The alien new-com- 
ers evidently were not friendless, and there was hesitation in 
the half-formed measures for their annoyance. 

Roger remained an hour or two, aiding the girls in trying 
to make the rooms more homelike, which, however, was 
rather a hopeless task. Mr. Jocelyn, half stupefied by 
opium, retreated to one of the small dark closet bedrooms, 
and left the scene unembarrassed by his presence. Roger re- 
marked emphatically that the tenement was no place for 
them, but Mildred told him that the rent had been paid for 
a month in advance, and that they must try to endure it, add- 
ing, “ The twenty-five dollars that you and Mr. Wentworth 
obtained for me has been, after all, a perfect Godsend. ' ' 

He was touched, and bound to her with bands of steel by 
the perfect trust she now reposed in him, and he determined 
to watch over her like an amiable dragon, making it his first 


444 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


and constant thought how to rescue them all from theii 
wretched condition. He was much surprised, however, when 
Mildred said to him, as he was preparing to leave, “ Mr. 
Atwood, there is something I wish to say to you. Will you 
let me walk a block or two with you, and then bring me 
back again ?’ ’ 

Roger tried to disguise his feelings by saying laughingly 
that he would “walk to Spuyten Duyvil ” with her, but 
added, “ You are too tired to go out at all to-night. I will 
come to-morrow evening,” and he remonstrated so earnestly 
and kindly that she yielded, promising to rest much of the 
following day. 

“Oh, Millie,” said her mother, with a faint smile, “it 
does my heart good to see that there is some one who knows 
how and has the will to take care of you.” 

“ Yes,” cried Belle, “ this place is a perfect hole. It’s 
not fit for nice girls to be seen in, and if Roger gives us a 
chance to get out of it you had better take it as soon as pos- 
sible. I give you fair warning. ” 

“ What do you mean, Belle ?” asked her mother. 

Belle made no answer, but went to her closet bedroom 
with a morose, sullen look on her face. The poor woman 
looked inquiringly at Mildred, who said soothingly, “ Don't 
worry, mamma. Belle is a little tired and discouraged to- 
night She’ 11 be in a better mood in the morning. ’ ' 

When all were sleeping from the fatigues o* the day, she 
sat alone with clasped hands and eyes so wide and troubled 
that it seemed as if she could never close them again. 
“ Alas •” she sighed, “ what must I do ? He is our good 
genius, and yet I must drive him away. He must not sacri- 
fice all his prospects for us. It would be most cruel and 
unjust to let him do so. I must reason with him and show 
him plainly that it would not be right, and absolve him from 
every shadow of blame for leaving us to such fate ax God 


"HOME, SWEET HOME r 


445 


permits. Because he is so generous and brave he shall not 
suffer a loss which he cannot now comprehend.” 

At last, from utter weariness, she fell into a broken 
sleep. 


440 


WITHOUT A HOMS, 


CHAPTER XL. 


NEIGHBORS. 


ROMPTLY the following evening Roger appeared, and 



A with glowing cheeks told his friends that Mr. Went- 
worth had found him employment in a lawyer s office, which 
would enable him to pay his way and at the same time give 
him much practical insight into his chosen profession. 
Mildred looked at him wistfully, but her resolution was not 
shaken, and they went out together, Roger saying, with a 
smiling nod at Belle, “ It will be your turn to-morrow even- 


ing.’ ' 


“ Roger,” said Mildred, “ I’ve much to say to you, and 
it is of great importance that you should listen calmly and 
sensibly.” 

“All right,” he answered laughingly. “You will find 
me as quiet and impressible as the oysters over which we’ 11 
have our talk, but only on this condition. You shall not 
fatigue yourself by a word here in the street. ” Nevertheless 
she felt the phlegmatic creature’s arm trembling under her 
hand. After a moment he went on, in the same light way, 
“ I want you to understand I am not going to be a friend in 
name merely ; I intend to assert my rights, and you had 
better learn from the start that I am the most tremendously 
obstinate fellow in the city.” 

“ But you must listen to reason.” 

“ Certainly ; so must you.” 

“ To begin with,” she resumed, “ I’ve had my supper, 
and so don’t need any more.” 


NEIGHBOR 


44T 


“ I haven’t had mine, and am ravenous. The idea of 
talking reason to a hungry man ! I know of a nice quiet 
restaurant which, at this hour, we’ 11 have almost to ourselves. 
You surely won’t be so unsocial as to let me eat alone.” 

“ Well, if I yield in trifles you must yield in matters that 
are vital. Why did you not get your supper before ?” 

“Too busy ; and then, to be honest, I knew I’d enjoy it 
a hundredfold more with you. I’m a social animal.” 

Mildred sighed, for this good-comradeship was making 
her duty very hard. 

They soon reached the place in question, and Roger or- 
dered enough for four. 

“ You don’t realize what you are doing in any respect,” 
said Mildred in smiling reproof. 

“ Wait half an hour before you settle that question,” he 
replied with a confident nod. “ I’ll soon prove to you what 
an unsentimental being I am.” 

“ Oh,” thought Mildred, “ how can I give up his friend- 
ship when he acts in this way ? And yet I must. He must 
be shown just how he is wronging himself.” When the 
waiter had departed she looked straight into his eyes with 
one of her steadfast glances, and said earnestly, ‘ ‘ Roger, I 
appreciate your generous kindness far more than any words 
can tell you, but the time has come for me to act resolutely 
and finally. Sad experience has taught me more within a 
year than most women learn in a lifetime. Mrs. Wheaton, 
who often works for your aunt, has told us of the sacrifice 
you have made in our behalf, and we cannot permit it. If 
not in years, I’m much older than you in other respects, and 
you don’t realize — ” 

Roger interrupted her by leaning back in his chair and 
breaking out into an irrepressible laugh. “ So you are go- 
ing to interfere in behalf of the small boy’s interests ? My 
venerable friend, permit me to remind you that I am six feet 


44 « 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


high in my stockings, and have lately reached the mature 
age of twenty-one. ’ * 

“ Roger," replied Mildred, with a pained look on her 
face, “ I’m in earnest, and I’ve lain awake nearly all of two 
nights thinking about it." 

“ Millie, your oysters are getting cold. You don’t k now 
anything about boys, much less about men. Don’t you 
know I’ll be much more amiable after supper? It’s the 
nature of the male animal, and what’s the use of going 
against nature ?’ ’ 

‘‘Oh, Roger, listen to me. I’m desperately in earnest. 
To let you sacrifice such prospects as Mrs. Wheaton said your 
uncle held out to you for our sakes oppresses me with guilt. 
I can’ t eat anything — you don’ t realize — ’ ' 

“ Millie Jocelyn," said Roger, his face becoming grave 
and gentle, “ I know what you are driving at You might 
as well try to stop Spring from coming on. I’ m going to 
be your honest, faithful friend, so help me God ! Even if 
you left me now and refused to speak to me again, I’d watch 
over you and yours in every way I could. It’s my good 
destiny, and I thank God for it, for I feel it’s making a man 
of me. I won’t deceive you in one iota, and I admit to my 
shame that my worldly old uncle tempted me that night, 
especially after I saw from your face just how you felt Even 
then my hope was that I could do more for you by yielding 
to his views than if I stood out against them, but a little 
thought convinced me that you would starve rather than take 
aid from one who would not give open friendship and com- 
panionship, and you would be right. Oh, I exult in your 
pride, and respect you for it. You are my ideal woman. 
Millie, and if my uncle had owned this island, and had 
offered it all to me, I'd have made a wretched bargain in giv- 
ing up for it the privilege of being here this evening, with the 
right to look you straight in the eyes withont shame. If 1 


NEIGHBORS. 


had yielded to him then, as the devil tempted me to, I’d 
never have known another day of self-respect or happiness. 
I'm building now on the rock of honor and manhood, and 
you can’t say anything that will change my purpose. I 
know what I am about if I am only a ‘ boy ; ’ and Mr. Went- 
worth, who has been told all, approves of my course. So 
eat your oysters, Millie, and submit to the inevitable." 

“ Oh Roger, Roger, what shall I say to you ?’’ 

** Look here, Millie ; if you were in my place, would you 
desert a brave, true girl in misfortune ? No ; unlike me, you 
would never have hesitated a moment" 

“ But, Roger, as you say you — you — saw in my face a 
truth that absolved you — " 

“ What I saw in your face," he said gravely, “ is my mis^ 
fortune It is not anything for which you are to blame in 
the least. And, Millie, I’d rather have your friendship than 
any other woman's love. I'm choosing my own course with 
my eyes open, and, thank God, I’ve chosen rightly. I’d 
have been the most miserable fellow in the whole city if I 
had chosen otherwise. Now I’m happy. It’s all right. 
I’ve vowed to be a brother to Belle, and to do all in my 
power for your sweet, gentle mother. I’ve vowed to be your 
true friend in all respects, and if you protested till Doomsday 
it wouldn’t make any difference. I’ve written to my mother, 
and I know her well enough to be sure that she will approve 
of my course. So will my father by and by. He isn't bad 
at heart, but, like uncle, a dollar is so large in his eyes that 
it hides the sun. Be that as it may, I’m just as much of an 
Atwood as he is, and can be just as obstinate in doing what I 
know to be right as he can be in requiring a course that 
would spoil my life. Millie, there never was a soldier, in all 
the past, braver than you have shown yourself to be, and you 
are a delicate girl that I could carry like a child. Do you 
advise a young, strong-handed fellow to play the coward, and 


45 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME, 


desert toe women I love and honor in their sore need and 
danger ? You have looked on only one side of this ques- 
tion, and you must not think so meanly of me as to even 
suggest anything of the kind again. . ^ 

“ Roger, Roger, can you realize what you are saying? 
Mildred faltered, a slow, painful flush crimsoning her face. 
“How can you honor those who are so disgraced ? You 
don’t know what papa has become. The world will share 

your uncle’ s views concerning us. ’ ’ 

“ I do know all about your father, Millie, and I pity him 
from the depths of my soul. He is the dark background 
which brings out your absolute truth and purity. I do honor 
you and Mrs. Jocelyn as I honor my own mother, and I in- 
tend to prove myself worthy of your respect at least, for its 
loss would be fatal to me. I even honor your rare fidelity, 
though it stands so awfully in my way. Now, surely, we un- 
derstand each other. But, come, this is far too serious talk 
for a restaurant and the supper-table. I am now going to 
give my whole soul to oysters, and I adjure you by our 
bonds to do the same. Here’s to our friendship, Millie, and 
may I be choked the moment I’m false to it!” and he 
drained a generous cup of coffee. 

“ You won’t listen to me, then,” she said, with a face 
wherein perplexity, relief, and gratitude were blended. 

“ I won’t listen to a word that will make me the most 
miserable wretch in the world, and you won’t get rid of me 
as long as I live. So, there, you might as well submit to 
fa te and eat your oysters. ’ ’ 

Her expression became very grave and resolute. 4 ‘ Roger, ” 
she said slowly, ‘ ‘ I did not know there was so kind and true 
a man in the world. I will do anything that you can ask. ' ’ 

His eyes suddenly became infinitely wistful and tender, and 
then he gave himself a little characteristic shake as he said, 
rather brusquely, “ I accept that promise, and shall at one* 


NEIGHBORS. 


45 * 


tax it to the utmost with the request that you eat a jolly 
good supper and call on me every time I can aid you.” 

Her glance in response warmed his soul, and then she 
gave herself up to social friendliness in a way which proved 
that a great burden had been taken from her heart. On 
their way home, however, she hinted her fears in regard to 
Belle, and Roger understood her thoroughly. For the next 
few days he watched the young girl, and soon satisfied him- 
self as to the character of the man who was pursuing her. 
His object now was to obtain some ground for brotherly- 
interference, and one Saturday evening, while following Belle 
home, he saw a young man join her and receive an undoubt- 
ed welcome. He soon became aware that matters were pro- 
gressing fast and far, for the young people wandered off into 
unfrequented streets, and once, where the shadows were 
deepest, he saw Belle's attendant steal his arm about her 
waist and kiss her. Belle’ s protest was not very vigorous* 
and when at last they parted in the passageway that led to 
Belle’s home the kiss was repeated and not resented at all. 

Roger followed the young man, and said, “ You have jusj 
parted from Miss Belle Jocelyn.” 

“ Well, that’s my affair.” 

‘ ‘ You will find yourself so greatly mistaken that you had 
better answer my questions honestly. What are your inten- 
tions toward her ? I have the right to ask. 

“ None of your business.” 

** Look here, young man, she has acknowledged me as 
her brother, and as a brother I feel toward her. I’ve only a 
few plain words to say. If your intentions are honorable 
I’ll not interfere, although I know all about you, and you 
are not my style of man by any means. If your intentions 
are not honorable, and you do not cease your attentions, I 11 
break every bone in your body— I swear it by the God who 
made me.” 


452 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Go to the devil 1” muttered the fellow. 

“ No, sir, nor shall I permit you to take one dear to me 
to the devil, but I pledge my word to send you straight to 
him if you harm Belle Jocelyn. Here, stop and look me in 
the eyes under this lamp. You kissed her twice to-night. 
Do you intend to make her your wife ?” 

There was no answer, but the sullen, half-frightened face 
was an unmistakable response. ‘ ‘ I understand you now, 

said Roger savagely, taking the fellow by the throat, “and 
I’ll send you swiftly to perdition if you don’t promise to let 
that girl alone,” and his gleaming eyes and iron grasp awed 
the incipient roue so completely that he quavered out, 

“ Oh, let go. If you feel the girl is your property, I’ll let 
her alone. ’ ’ 

Roger gave him a wrathful push which precipitated his 
limp form into the gutter, and growled as he walked off, “ It 
you value your life, keep your promise. ’ ’ 

An evening or two later Roger said to Belle, whom he had 
taken out for a stroll, “ I kept my word — I cowhided that 
fellow Bissel, who played such a dastardly part toward your 
sister. Of course I did not want to get myself into trouble, 
or give him any power over me, so I found out his haunts 
and followed him. One night, as he was returning rather 
late from a drinking saloon, I spoiled his good looks with a 
dozen savage cuts. He was too confused to see who it was 
in the dark, and to mislead him more thoroughly I said, with 
the last blow, ‘ Take that for lying and causing a poor girl to 
be sent to prison. ' He thinks, no doubt, that some friend 
of the thief was the one who punished him. What’s more, 
he won’t forget the lashing I gave him till his dying day, and 
if I mistake not his smooth face will long bear my marks.” 

Belle gave but a languid approval, for she had missed her 
lover for the last two evenings. “ Belle,” he continued, 
gravely but gently, 4 ‘ I was tempted to choke the life out of 


NEIGHBORS. 


453 


k fellow the other night, and it was the life oi one who kissed 
you twice/* 

She dropped her hand from his arm, but he replaced it and 
held it tightly as he resumed, “ I’m no make-believe brother, 
you know. I’m just such a brother as I would be if I had 
been born with you on a Southern plantation. Though 
the young man was not to my mind, I told him that if his 
intentions were honorable I would not interfere, but I soon 
learned that he was an out-and-out scoundrel, and I said 
words to him that will make him shun you as he wouU 
death. Belle, I would kill him as I used to club rattle- 
snakes in the country, if he harmed a hair of your head, and 
he knows it/* 

“You misjudge him utterly/’ cried Belle in a passion, 
“ and you have just driven away the one friend that I had in 
all the world. I won’t stand it. I’m not a baby, and I 
won’t be treated like one.” 

Roger let her storm on without a word, but at last, when 
she concluded, “ I’ve no father worthy of the name, and 
so I’ll take care of myself,’’ he asked quietly, 

“ How about your mother, Belle ?” 

In strong revulsion the impulsive girl gave way to an 
equally passionate outburst of grief. “ Oh,” she cried, “ I 
wish 1 were dead !” 

“ Belle,” said Roger, very gently now, “ if you listened 
to that fellow you would soon make that wish in earnest 
Now in your heart you don’t mean it at all. You don’t love 
such a man, and you, know it. Why should you throw your 
young, beautiful life into the gutter ? It is a mere reckless 
protest against your unhappy life. Belle, you are not seven* 
teen, and you may live till you are seventy if you take care 
of yoursel f. Think of the changes for the better that may 
come in that time. They shall come, too. I shall share 
with you all my fortunes, and you have told me many a time 


454 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


that I was sure to succeed. I pledge you my word that be- 
fore many years you shall have good honest men at your 
feet,” and he reasoned with her so sensibly, and petted and 
toothed her so kindly, that at last she clung to his arm as if it 
Were a defence indeed, and said, with tearful eyes, “ You arc 
a brother in the best sense of the word, and I wonder you 
have patience with such a reckless, passionate fool as I am. 
I’m not fit for you to speak to.” 

“ No, Belle, you are not bad at heart — far from it. You 
are half desperate from your present misfortunes, and in your 
blind impulse to escape you would make matters infinitely 
worse. Be patient, dear. It’s a long lane that has no turn- 
ing. To one so young as you are life promises very much, 
if it is not spoiled at the beginning, and Mr. Wentworth 
would tell us that there is a heaven beyond it all.” 

The influence of this interview did not speedily pass from 
her mind, and by her gentler and more patient bearing Mil- 
dred was taught again how much she owed to one whom she 
had so long repelled. 

Mr. Wentworth succeeded in interesting the lady to whom 
he had referred in Mildred, and a visit from the young girl 
confirmed her good impressions. As a result, sufficient work 
was found or made to give Mildred steady employment. 
Mr. Jocelyn was comparatively quiet and much at home. 
Often he was excessively irritable and exasperating in words 
and manner, but no longer violent from bestial excess. He 
put off the project of going to a curative institution, with the 
true opium inertia and procrastination, and all efforts to 
lead him to definite action proved fruitless. His presence, 
however, and his quiet, haughty ways, with Roger’s frequent 
visits, did much for a time to restrain the ill-disposed people 
around them, but the inevitable contact with so much de- 
pravity and coarseness was almost unendurable. 

Now that Mildred no longer went out to her work, she 


NEIGHBORS. 


455 


taxed her ingenuity to the utmost to amuse Fred and Min- 
nie, that she might keep them from the horrible associations 
beyond their door, but her father’s irritability often rendered 
it impossible for them to remain in the room, and. Child- 
like, they would assimilate somewhat with the little heathen 
among whom their lot was now cast 

Poor Mrs. Jocelyn was sinking under her sorrows. She 
did not complain : she blamed herself with a growing mor- 
bidness for the ruin of her husband and the hard lot of her 
children, and hope deferred was making her heart sick in- 
deed. Her refined, gentle nature recoiled with an indescrib- 
able repugnance from her surroundings, and one day she 
received a shock from which she never fully recovered. 

Her husband was out, and Mildred had gone to deliver 
some work. The children, whom she -tried to keep with 
her, broke away at last and left the door open. Before she 
could close it a drunken woman stumbled in, and, sinking 
into a chair, she let a bundle slip from her hands. It fell 
on the floor, unrolled, and a dead infant lay before Mrs. 
Jocelyn’s horrified gaze. Her cries for help brought a stout, 
red-faced woman from across the hallway, and she seemed to 
understand what was such a fearful mystery to Mrs. Jocelyn, 
for she took the unwelcome intruder by the shoulder and 
tried to get her to go out hastily, but the inebriated wretch 
was beyond shame, fear, or prudence. Pulling out of her 
pocket a roll of bills she exclaimed, in hideous exultation, 

“ Faix, I’oive had a big day’ s work. Trhree swell families 
on the Avenue guv me all this to burry the brat Burry it ? 
Divil a bit. It’s makin’ me fortin’. Cud we ony git dead 
babbies enough we’d all be rich, Bridget, but here’s enough 
to kape the pot bilin’ for wakes to come, and guv us a good 
sup o’ whiskey into the bargain. Here, take a drap,” sue 
said, pulling out a black bottle and holding it up to Mi's. 
Jocelyn. “ What yer glowrin’ so ghostlike for ? Ah, let me 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


45 6 

alone, ye ould hag, ’ ’ she said angrily to the red-faced woman, 
who seemed in great trepidation, and tried to put her hand 
over the drunken creature’s mouth. “Who’s afeard ? 
Money’ll buy judge and jury, an’ if this woman peaches on 
us I’ll bate her brains out wid the dead babby.’’ 

Finding that words were of no avail, and that she could 
not move the great inert mass under which Mrs. Jocelyn’s 
chair was creaking, the neighbor from across the way snatched 
the money and retreated to her room. This stratagem had 
the desired effect, for the woman was not so intoxicated as to 
lose her greed, and she followed as hastily as her unsteady 
steps permitted. A moment later the red-faced woman 
dashed in, seized the dead child and its wrappings, and then 
shaking her huge fist in Mrs. Jocelyn’s face, said, “ If yees 
ever spakes of what yer’ve sane, I’ll be the death of ye — by 
the Vargin I will ; so mum’s the word, or it’ll be worse for 
ye.’’ 

When Mildred returned she found her mother nervously 
prostrated. “ I’ve had a bad turn,’’ was her only explana- 
tion. Her broken spirit was terrified by her awful neigh- 
bors, and not for the world would she add another feather’s 
weight to the burdens under which her family faltered by in- 
volving them in a prosecution of the vile impostor who had 
sickened her with the exposure of a horrible trade. * 

‘ ‘ Mamma, ’ ’ cried Mildred, in sharp distress, 4 4 we must 
reave this place. It’s killing you.” 

44 I wish we could leave it, dear,” sighed the pocr 
woman. 44 I think I’d be better anywhere else.” 

“ We shall leave it,” said the girl resolutely. 44 Let the 
jent go. I had already about decided upon it, and now I’ll 

* This character is not an imaginary one and, on ample au- 
thority, I was told of an instance where the large sum of fifty 
dollars was obtained from some kindly family by this detestable 
uiethod of imposition. 


NEIGHBORS. 457 

fo with Mrs. Wheaton to-morrow and find rooms among 
more respectable people." 

The events of the evening confirmed her purpose, for the 
young roughs that rendezvoused nightly at the entrance of 
the long passageway determined that they would no longer 
‘submit to the “ uppish airs" of the sisters, but “ tache ’em " 
that since they lived in the same house they were no better 
than their neighbors. Therefore, as Belle boldly brushed by 
them as usual on her return from the shop, one young 
fellow, with a wink to his comrades, followed her, and where 
the passage was darkest put his arm around her waist and 
pressed upon her cheek a resounding kiss. In response 
there came from the entrance a roar of jeering laughter. 
But the young ruffian found instantly to his sorrow that he 
had aroused a tigress. Belle was strong and furious from the 
insult, and her plump hand came down on the fellow’s nose 
with a force that caused the blood to flow copiously. After 
the quick impulse of anger and self-defence passed she ran 
sobbing like a child to Mildred, and declared she would not 
stay another day in the vile den. Mildred was white with 
anger, and paced the room excitedly for a few moments. 

“ Oh, God, that we had a father !" she gasped. “ There, 
Belle, let us be patient, ’ ’ she continued after a few moments ; 
“ we can’t contend with such wretches. I promise you that 
this shall be your last day in this place. We ought to have 
left before. ’ ' 

Then, as the girls grew calmer, they resolved not to tell 
either their father or Roger, fearing that they might become 
embroiled in a dangerous and disgraceful quarrel involving 
their presence in a police court. Mildred had given her 
mother a sedative to quiet her trembling nerves, and she was 
sleeping in one of the bedrooms, and so happily was not 
aware of Belle’s encounter. 

Mr. Jocelyn soon came in, and, for the first time since 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


♦ 5 * 

Mildred’s warning, was a little the worse for liquor, but he 
had the self-control to keep quiet, and after a few mouthfuls 
of supper went to his room overcome by the stupor he had 
bought. After the children were sleeping the girls gladly 
Welcomed Roger, for he had become the chief source of 
light and hope in their saddened lives. And he did brighten 
and cheer them wonderfully, for, content with a long and 
prosperous day’s work, and full of the hopefulness and cour- 
age of youth, he imparted hope and fortitude to them in 
spite of all that was so depressing. 

“ Come, girls," he said at last, “ you need some oxygen. 
The air is close and stifling in this den of a house, and out- 
side the evening is clear and bracing. Let’s have a stroll." 

“ We can’t go far," said Mildred, “ for mamma is sleep- 
ing, and I would not have her wake and be frightened for 
anything. ’ ’ 

“ Well, we’ll only go around a block or two. You’ll feel 
the stronger for it, and be in a better condition to move to- 
morrow," for Mildred had told him of her purpose, and he 
had promised to help them get settled on the following even- 
ing. When they reached the end of the dark passageway 
they feared that trouble was brewing, for a score of dark, 
coarse faces lowered at them, and the fellow that Belle had 
punished glared at her above his bandaged face. Paying no 
heed to them, however, they took a brief, quick walk, and 
returned to find the entrance blocked by an increasing num- 
ber of dangerous-looking young ruffians. 

“ Stand aside," said Roger sternly. 

A big fellow knocked off his hat in response, and received 
instantly a blow in the eye which would have felled him had 
he not been sustained by the crowd, who now closed on the 
young man. 

“ Run up the street and call for police," he said to the 
girls, but they were snatched back and held by some of the 


NEIGHBORS. 


459 


gang, and hands placed over their mouths, yet not before 
they had uttered two piercing cries. 

Roger, after a brief, desperate struggle, got his back to the 
wall and struck blows that were like those of a sledge-ham- 
mer. He was dealing, however, with some fairly trained 
pugilists, and was suffering severely, when a policeman 
rushed in, clubbing right and left The gang dispersed in- 
stantly, but two were captured. The girls, half fainting from 
excitement and terror, were conducted to their room by 
Roger, and then they applied palliatives to the wounds of 
their knight, with a solicitude and affection which made the 
bruises welcome indeed to the young fellow. They were in 
terror at the idea of his departure, for the building was like 
a seething caldron. He reassured them by promising to re- 
main until all was quiet, and the police also informed them 
that the house would be under surveillance until morning. 

On the following day, with Mrs. Wheaton’s aid, they 
found rooms elsewhere, and Roger, after appearing as wit- 
ness against the rowdies that had been captured, and inform- 
ing his employers of what had occurred, gave the remaining 
hours to the efficient aid of his friends. 


4 *> 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


CHAPTER XLI. 

GLINTS OF SUNSHINE. 

HEIR new rooms at first promised remarkably well. 



A They were on the ground-floor of a large tenement 
that fronted on a rather narrow street, and their neighbors 
seemed quiet, well-disposed people. Mr. Wentworth soon 
called and congratulated them on the change. Mrs. Whea- 
ton frequently came to give Mrs. Jocelyn a “ ’elping ’and,” 
as she phrased it, but her eliminations did not extend to her 
work, which was rounded out with the completeness of hearty 
good will. Roger rarely missed an evening without giving 
an hour or two to the girls, often taking them out to walk, 
with now and then a cheap excursion on the river or a ram- 
ble in Central Park. In the latter resort they usually spent 
part of Sunday afternoon, going thither directly from the 
chapel. Mildred’s morbidness was passing away. She had 
again taken her old class, and her face was gaining a serenity 
wnicn had long been absent. 

One of the great wishes of her heart now had good pros 
pect of being fulfilled, for her father had at last consented tn 
go to an institution wherein he could receive scientific treat 
ment suited to his case. The outlook was growing so hope- 
ful that even Mrs. Jocelyn was rallying into something lik« 
hopefulness and courage, and her health was slowly improv- 
ing. She was one whose life was chiefly sustained by he/ 
heart and the well-being of those she loved. 

Belle also was improving greatly. The memorable inter- 
view with Roger, already described, had a lasting influence. 


GLINTS OF SUNSHINE . 461 

and did much to banish the giddiness of unthinking, ignorant 
girlhood, and the recklessness arising from an unhappy life. 
Now that the world was brightening again, she brightened 
with it Among his new associates Roger found two or 
three fine, manly fellows, who were grateful indeed for an in- 
troduction to the handsome, lively girl, and scarcely a week 
passed during May and June that some inexpensive evening 
excursion was not enjoyed, and thoroughly enjoyed too, 
even by Mildred. Roger was ever at his best when in her 
society. His talk was bright and often witty, and his spirit of 
fun as genuine and contagious as that of Belle herself. He 
was now sincerely happy in the consciousness of Mildred's 
perfect trust and strong affection, believing that gradually, 
and even before the girl was aware of it, she would learn to 
give more than friendship. It was his plan to make himself 
essential to her life, indeed a part of it, and he was ap- 
parently succeeding. Mildred had put her fate into his 
hands. She felt that she owed so much to him that she was 
ready to keep her promise literally. At any time for months 
he might have bound her to him by promises that would 
never have been broken ; he knew it, and she was aware of 
his knowledge, but when, instead of taking advantage of her 
gratitude, he avoided all sentiment, and treated her with a 
cordial frankness as if she were in truth simply the friend he 
had asked her to become, all of her old constraint in his 
presence was unthought of, and she welcomed the glances of 
his dark, intent eyes, which interpreted her thoughts even be- 
fore they were spoken. The varying expressions of his face 
made it plain enough to her that he liked and appreciated 
her thoughts, and that his admiration and affection were only 
strengthened by their continued companionship. Moreover, 
she was well content with what she regarded as her own 
progress toward a warmer regard for him. 

One moonlit night in June they mad« up a little party 


462 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


for an excursion on a steamer plying down the Bay. Belle had 
had two attendants, and would have been just as well pleased 
had there been two or three more. As she once asserted, 
she could have kept them “ all jolly.” During the earlier 
hours Roger had been as merry and full of nonsense as 
Belle, but on their return he and Mildred had taken seats a 
little apart from the others and drifted into some talk relating 
to one of his studies, he in a simple, lucid manner explain- 
ing to her the latest theories on a disputed question. She 
surprised and pleased him by saying, with a little pathetic 
accent in her voice, 

“ Oh, Roger, you are leaving me far, far behind.” 

“ What do you mean, Millie ?” 

“ Why, you are climbing the peaks of knowledge at a 
great pace, and what’ s to become of poor little me, that have 
no chance to climb at all worth naming ? You won’t want 
a friend who doesn’ t know anything, and can’ t understand 
what you are thinking about.” 

“ I’ll wait for you, Millie ; rest assured you shall never be 
left alone. ’ ’ 

“ No, that won’t do at all,” she replied, and she was in 
earnest now. “ There is one thing wherein you will find 
me as obstinate as an Atwood, and that is never to let our 
friendship retard your progress or render your success doubt- 
ful, now that you have struck out for yourself. Your rela- 
tives think that I — that we shall be a drag upon you ; I have 
resolved that we shall not be, and you know that I have a 
little will of my own as well as yourself. You must not 
wait for me in any sense of the word, for you know how 
very proud I am, and all my pride is staked on your suc- 
cess. It ought to have been dead long ago, but it seems just 
as strong as ever. ’ ’ 

“ And I’m proud of your pride. You are a soldier, Mil- 
lie, and it isn’t possible for you to say, ‘ I surrender.’ ” 


GLINTS OF SUNSHINE. 


463 


“ You are mistaken. When you saved me from prison ; 
when you gave nearly all you had that papa might have the 
chance which I trust will restore his manhood, I surrendered, 
and no one knew it better than you did. ’ ’ 

“ Pardon me, Millie ; the gates of the citadel were closed, 
and ever have been. Even your will cannot open them — 
no, not even your extravagant sense of gratitude for what it 
would be my happiness to do in any case. That something 
which was once prejudice, dislike, repulsion, has retreated 
into the depths of your heart, and it won’t yield — at least it 
hasn’t yet But, Millie, I shall be very patient. Just a6 
truly as if you were the daughter of a millionnaire, your 
heart shall guide your action.” 

“You are a royal fellow, Roger,” she faltered. “ If you 
were not so genuinely honest, I should think you wonder- 
fully shrewd in your policy.” 

“ Well, perhaps the honest course is always the shrewdest 
in the long run,” he replied laughingly, and with a deep 
gladness in his tone, for her words gave a little encourage- 
ment. ‘ ‘ But your charge that I am leaving you behind as 
I pursue my studies has a grain of truth in it as far as mere 
book learning goes. In your goodness, Millie, and all that 
is most admirable, I shall always follow afar off. Since I 
can’t wait for you, as you say, and you have so little time to 
read and study yourself, I am going to recite my lessons to 
y OU — that is, some of them, those that would interest you — 
and by telling you about what I have learned J shall fix 
all in my mind more thoroughl}'. 

Mildred was exceedingly pleased with the idea. “ I don't 
see why this isn’t possible to some extent,” she said gladly, 
'* and I can’t tell you how much hope and comfort it gives 
me. That I’ve had so little time to read and cultivate my 
mind has been one of the great privations of our poverty, but 
if you will patiently try to make me understand a little of 


464 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


what you are studying, I won’ t relapse into barbarism. Oh* 
Roger, how good you are to me !” 

“ That is like saying, How good I am to myself ! Let 
me tell you, Millie, in all sincerity, that this plan promises 
as much for me as for you. Your mind is so quick, and 
you look at things so differently, that I often get new and 
better ideas of the subject after talking it over with you. 
The country boy that you woke up last summer was right in 
believing that you could be an invaluable friend, for I can’ t 
tell you how much richer life has become to me. ’ ’ 

“ Roger, how I misunderstood you ! How blind and 
stupid I was ! God was raising up for me the best friend a 
girl ever had, and I acted so shamefully that anybody but 
you would have been driven away.” 

“You do yourself injustice, and I wouldn’t let any one 
else judge you so harshly.” 

After reaching her room that night, Mildred thought, “ I 
do believe mamma was right, and that an old-fashioned 
Southern girl, such as she says that I am, can learn to love a 
second time. Roger is so genuinely good and strong 1 
It /ests me to be with him, and he gives some of his own 
strength and courage. To-night, for the first time since he 
told me everything so gently and honestly, has anything 
been said of that which I can see is in his mind all the time, 
and I brought on all that was said myself. I can now read 
his thoughts better than he can read mine, and it would be 
mean not to give him a little of the hope and encouragement 
that he so richly deserves. It troubles me, however, that 
my mind and heart are so tranquil when I’m with him. 
That’s not the way I once felt,” she sighed. “ He seems 
like the dearest brother a girl ever had — no, not that ex- 
actly ; he is to me the friend he calls himself, and I’d be 
content to have things go on this way as long as wo 
lived.” 


GLINTS OF SUNSHINE. 4 6 5 

“ Millie/' cried Belle roguishly, “ what did Roger say to 
you to call out such sweet smiles and tender sighs ?” 

The young girl started, and flushed slightly. “ We were 
talking about astronomy,” she said brusquely. 

“ Well, I should think so, for the effects in your appear- 
ance are heavenly. If he could have seen you as you have 
appeared for the last ten minutes, he would be more des- 
perately in love than ever. Oh, Millie, you are so pretty that 
I am half in love with you myself. 

“ Nonsense ! you are a giddy child. Tell me about your 
own favorites, and which of them you like best” 

“ I like them all best. Do you think I’m going to be 
such a little goose as to tie myself down to one ? These are 
but the advance guard of scores. Still I shall always like 
these ones best because they are kind to me now while I’m 
only a ‘ shop-lady. ’ ' ’ 

‘‘You mustn’t flirt, Belle.” 

“ I’m not flirting — only having a good time, and they 
know it I’m not a bit sentimental — only jolly, you know. 
When the right time comes, and I’ve had my fun, I'm going 
to take my pick of the best. ’ ’ 

“ Well, that's sensible. Belle, darling, are not Roger’s 
friends better than those underhanded fellows who could not 
look mamma in the eyes ?’ ' 

“ Oh, Millie,” said the impulsive girl with a rush of tears, 
“ don't speak of those horrid days. I was an ignorant, reck- 
less fool — I was almost beside myself with despair and un- 
happiness ; I could kiss Roger’s hands from gratitude. Look 
here, Millie, if you don’t marry him I will, for there’s no 
one that can compare with him. 

“ Come, now, don’t make me jealous.” 

“ I wish I could. I’ve a great mind to flirt with him a 
&tle, just to wake up your old stupid heart Still I think 
you are coming on very well. Oh, Millie, how I conic} 


466 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


dance at your wedding ! Solid as I am, my feet would 
scarcely touch the floor. ’ ’ 

Mildred laughed, and said softly, “ It would be a pity to 
deny you so much pleasure, Belle.” Then she added res- 
olutely, “ No more talk about weddings, if you please. For 
long, long years Roger must give his whole mind to his 
studies. His relatives say that we shall hang helplessly upon 
him and spoil his life, but we’ 11 prove them mistaken, Belle. 
I’d work my fingers off to give him the chance that he’ll 
make so much of, for I’m as proud of him as you are.” 

“ That’s the way to talk,” exulted Belle. “ I see how it’s 
all coming out. He’ 11 stand up head, as I told you, and I 
told you, too, that he’ d win you in spite of yourself. Roger 
Atwood does all he undertakes — it’s his way.” 

“ Well, we’ll see,” was the half-smiling, half-sighing an- 
swer ; but sanguine Belle had no doubt concerning the 
future, and soon her long eyelashes drooped over her glow- 
ing cheeks in untroubled sleep. 

“ Oh, how good for us all is the sunlight of a little happi- 
ness and hope!” Mildred thought. ‘‘Darling mamma is 
reviving, Belle is blossoming like a blush rose, and I — well, 
thank God for Roger Atwood’s friendship. May I soon be 
able to thank Him for his love.” 

Ah, Mildred Jocelyn, you have still much to learn. A 
second love can grow up in the heart, but not readily in one 
like yours. 

Within a month from the time that Mr. Jocelyn entered a 
curative institution, he returned to his family greatly changed 
for the better. His manner toward his family was full of re- 
morseful tenderness, and he was eager to retrieve his fortunes. 
They welcomed him with such a wealth of affection, they 
cheered and sustained him in so many delicate and sympa- 
thetic ways, that he wondered at the evil spell which had 
bound him so long and made him an alien among those sq 


GLINTS OF SUNSHINE . 


467 


lovable and so dearly beloved. He now felt sure that he 
would devote body and soul to their welfare for the rest of 
his days, and he could not understand why or how it was 
that he had been so besotted. The intense sufferings during 
the earlier stage of his treatment at the institution made him 
shrink with horror from the bare thought of his old enslave- 
ment, and during the first weeks after his return he did not 
dream it was possible that he could relapse, although he had 
been warned of his danger. His former morbid craving was 
often fearfully strong, but he fought it with a vindictive hatred, 
and his family, in their deep gladness and inexperience, felt 
assured that husband and father had been restored to them. 

It seemed as if he could not thank Roger enough, and his 
eyes grew eloquent with gratitude when the young fellow's 
name was mentioned, and when they rested on his bright, 
honest face. Mr. Wentworth went out among his business 
friends, and so interested one of them that a position was in 
a certain sense made for the poor man, and although the 
salary was small at first, the prospect for its increase was good 
if he would maintain his abstinence and prove that he had 
not lost his old fine business powers. This he bade so fair 
to do that hope and confidence grew stronger every day, and 
they felt that before very long they would be able to move 
into more commodious quarters, situated in a better part of 
the city, for by reason of the neglect of the streets and sewer- 
age on the part of the authorities, the locality in which they 
now were was found to be both very disagreeable and un- 
wholesome. They would have removed at once, but they 
were eager to repay Roger the money he had loaned them, 
although he protested against their course. Not realizing 
their danger, and in the impulse of their pride and integrity, 
they remained, practising the closest economy. 

Early in July, Roger obtained a vacation, and went home 
4>n a visit, proposing to harden his muscles by aiding his 


4 68 


without a home . 


father through the harvest season. He was so helpful 
so kind and considerate that even grim, disappointed 
Mr. Atwood was compelled to admit that his boy had be- 
come a man. Mrs. Atwood tenderly and openly exulted 
over him, and, obeying her impulse, she wrote a friendly let- 
ter to Mildred, which made the young girl very happy. 

Susan became more than reconciled to Roger’ s course, for 
he promised that some day she should often come to the city 
and have splendid times. Clara Bute had become the happy 
wife of a well-to-do farmer, and she sent an urgent request 
to Belle and Mildred to visit her. The latter would not leave 
her parents, but Belle accepted gladly, and the gay, frolic- 
some girl left more than one mild heartache among the rura* 
beaux that vied with each other in their attentions. 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 


46 * 


CHAPTER XLII. 

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 

T HE skies seemed serene and bright, with promise to all 
for many happy days, but clouds were gathering be- 
low the horizon, and, most unexpectedly to him, the first bolt 
fell upon Roger. A day or two before his return to the city 
he found at the village office a letter with a foreign post-mark, 
addressed, in his care, to Miss Mildred Jocelyn. He knew 
the handwriting instantly, and he looked at the missive as if 
it contained his death-warrant. It was from Vinton Arnold. 
As he rode away he was desperately tempted to destroy the 
letter, and never breathe a word of its existence. He hoped 
and half believed that Mildred was learning to love him, and 
he was sure that if Arnold did not appear he would win all 
that he craved. The letter, which he had touched as if it 
contained nitro-glycerine, might slay every hope. Indeed he 
believed that it would, for he understood Mildred better than 
she understood herself. She believed that Arnold had given 
her up. Her heart had become benumbed with its own 
pain, and was sleeping after its long, weary waiting. He was 
sure, however, that if not interfered with he could awaken it 
at last to content and happiness. This letter, however, 
might be the torch which would kindle the old love with ten*, 
fold intensity. Long hours he fought his temptation like a 
gladiator, for fine as had been Mildred’s influence over him, 
he was still intensely human. At last he gained the victory, 
and went home quiet, but more exhausted than he had ever 


47 ° 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


been from a long hot day’s toil in the harvest-field. He had 
resolved to keep absolute faith with Mildred, and having once 
reached a decision he was not one to waver. 

As his mother kissed him good-by she held him off a 
moment, then whispered, “ Roger, Miss Jocelyn has given 
you something better than all your uncle’s money. I am 
content that it should be as it is. ’ ’ 

On the afternoon of the day of his arrival in the city he 
went to meet his fate. Mrs. Jocelyn greeted him like the 
mother he had just left, and Mildred’s glad welcome made 
him groan inwardly. Never before had she appeared so 
beautiful to him — never had her greeting been so tinged 
with her deepening regard. And yet she looked inquiringly 
at him from time to time, for he could not wholly disguise 
the fear that chilled his heart. 

“ Belle had a perfectly lovely time in the country,” said 
Mrs. Jocelyn. “ She has told us all about your people, and 
what a farmer you became. She said everybody was proud 
of you up at Forestville, and well they might be, although 
they don’ t know what we do. Oh, Roger, my dear boy, it 
does my heart good to see you again. We have all missed 
you so much. Oh, you’ 11 never know — you never can know. 
Good-by now, for a little while. I promised Mrs. Wheaton 
that I’d bring the children over and spend the afternoon with 
her. She is going to show me about cutting some little 
clothes for Fred. What a dear kind soul she is, with all her 
queer talk. God bless you, my boy. You bring hope and 
happiness back with you.” 

But the poor fellow was so conscious of his own coming 
trouble that tears came into his eyes, and after Mrs. Jocelyn 
had gone he looked at Mildred in a way that made her ask, 
gently and anxiously, 

“ What is it, Roger?” 

Alter a moment's hesitation he said grimly, “ Millie, it’s 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 


47 * 


rough on a fellow when he must be his own executioner. 
There, take it. It’s the heaviest load I ever carried in my 
life, ' ' and he threw the letter into her lap. 

After a moment’s glance she trembled violently, and be- 
came pale and red by turns, then buried her face in her 
hands. 

“ I knew it would be so,” he said doggedly. 44 1 knew 
what was the matter all along. ’ * 

She sprang up, letting the letter drop on the floor, and 
clung to him. “ Roger,” she cried, “ I won’t read the let- 
ter. I won’t touch it. No one shall come between us — no 
one has the right. Oh, it would be shameful after all — ’ ' 

“ Millie,” he said almost sternly, replacing her in her 
chair, ‘ ‘ the writer of that letter has the right to come be- 
tween us — he is between us, and there is no use in disguis- 
ing the truth. Come, Millie, I came here to play the man, 
and you must not make it too hard for me. Read your 
letter. ’ ’ 

“ I can’t,” she said, again burying her burning face in 
her hands, and giving way to a sudden passion of tears. 

“ No, not while I’m here, of course. And yet I’d like to 
know my fate, for the suspense is a little too much. I hope 
he’s written to tell you that he has married the daughter of the 
Great Mogul, or some other rich nonentity, ’ ’ he added, trying 
to meet his disappointment with a faint attempt at humor ; 
“ but I’m a fool to hope anything. Good-by, and read 
your letter in peace. I ought to have left it and gone away 
at once, but, confound it ! I couldn’t. A drowning man 
vill blindly catch at a straw. ’ ’ 

She looked at him, and saw that his face was white with 
pain and fear. 

“ Roger,” she said resolutely, “ I’ll burn that letter with- 
out opening it if you say so. I’ll do anything you ask.” 

He paced the room excitedly with clenched hands for a 


472 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


few moments, but at last turned toward her and said quietly 
“Will you do what I ask ?" 

“Yes, yes indeed." 

‘ ‘ Then read your letter. ’ ' 

She looked at him irresolutely a moment, then made a 
little gesture of protest and snatched up the missive almost 
vindictively. 

After reading a few lines her face softened, and she said, 
in accents of regret which she was too much off her guard to 
disguise, ‘ ‘ Oh, he never received my answer last summer. 

“ Of course not," growled Roger. “You deserved that, 
for you gave your note to that old blunderbuss Jotham, when 
I would have carried it safely. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, Roger, I can’t go on with this ; I am wronging you 
too shamefully. ’ ’ 

“You would wrong me far more if you were not honest 
With me at this time, ’ ' he said almost harshly. 

His words quieted and chilled her a little, and she replied 
sadly, “ You are right, Roger. You don’t want, nor should 
I mock you with the mere semblance of what you give. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Read the letter, ’ ’ was his impatient reply, “ or I shall 
go at once." 

She now turned to it resolutely, proposing to read it with 
an impassive face, but, in spite of herself, he saw that every 
word was like an electric touch upon her heart. As she 
finished, the letter dropped from her hands, and she began 
crying so bitterly that he was disarmed, and forgot himself in 
her behalf. 4 4 Don’ t cry so, Millie, ’ ’ he pleaded. 4 4 I can ’ t 
stand it. Come, now ; I fought this battle out once before, 
and didn’t think I could be so accursedly weak again." 

“ Roger, read that letter." 

“ No," he answered savagely ; “ I hate him — I could an- 
nihilate him ; but he shall never charge me with anything un- 
derhanded. That letter was meant for your eyes only- 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 473 

Since it must be, God grant he proves worthy ; but his words 
would sting me like adders.” 

She sprang to him, and, burying her lace upon his shoul 
der, sobbed, “ Oh, Roger, I can’t endure this. It’s worse 
than anything I’ve suffered yet” 

“ Oh, what a brute I am !” he groaned. “ His letter ought 
to have brought you happiness, but your kind heart is breaking 
over my trouble, for I’ve acted like a passionate boy. Mil- 
lie, dear Millie, I will be a brave, true man, and, as I prom- 
ised you, your heart shall decide all. From this time forth 
I am your brother, your protector, and I shall protect you 
against yourself as truly as against others. You are not to 
blame in the least. How could I blame you for a love that 
took possession of your heart before you knew of my exist- 
ence, and why has not Millie Jocelyn as good a right to fol- 
low her heart as any other girl in the land ? And you shall 
follow it It would be dastardly meanness in me to take 
advantage of your gratitude. Come, now, wipe your eyes, 
and give a sister's kiss before I go. It’s all right.” 

She yielded passively, for she was weak, nerveless, and 
exhausted. He picked up the open letter, replaced it within 
the envelope, and put it in her hand. “It’s yours,” he 
said, “ by the divine right of your love. When I come this 
evening, don’t let me see a trace of grief. I won’t mope and 
be lackadaisical, I promise,” and smilingly he kissed her 
good-by. 

She sat for an hour almost without moving, and then 
mechanically put the letter away and went on with her work. 
She felt herself unequal to any more emotion at that time, 
and after thinking the affair all over, determined to keep it 
to herself, for the present at least. She knew well how bitterly 
her father, mother, and Belle would resent the letter, and how 
greatly it would disquiet them if they knew that her old love 
was not dead, and seemingly could not and would not die. 


474 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


With the whole force of her resolute will she sought to gain 
an outward quietude, and succeeded so well that the family 
did not suspect anything. She both longed for and dreaded 
Roger’s appearance, and when he came she looked at him so 
kindly, so remorsefully, that she taxed his strength to the 
utmost ; but he held his own manfully, and she was com- 
pelled to admit that he had never appeared so gay or so brill- 
iant before. For an hour he and Belle kept them all laugh' 
ing over their bright nonsense, and then suddenly he said, 
“ Vacation’s over ; I must begin work to-morrow,” and in 
a moment he was gone. 

“ Millie,” cried Belle, “ you ought to thank your stars, 
for you have the finest fellow in the city,” and they all smiled 
at her so brightly that she fled to her room. There Belle 
found her a little later with red eyes, and she remarked 
bluntly, “ Well, you are a queer girl. I suppose you are 
crying for joy, but that isn’t my way.” 

After her sister was asleep Mildred read and re-read 
Arnold’s letter. At first she sighed and cried over it, and 
then lapsed into a long, deep reverie. “ Hard as it is for 
Roger,” she thought, “ he is right — I am not to blame. I 
learned to love Vinton Arnold, and permitted him to love 
me, before I had ever seen Roger. I should have a heart of 
stone could I resist his appeal in this letter. Here he says : 
‘ You did not answer my note last summer — I fear you have 
cast me off. I cannot blame you. After insults from my 
mother and my own pitiful exhibitions of weakness, my 
reason tells me that you have banished all thoughts of me in 
anger and disgust But, Millie, my heart will not listen to 
reason, and cries out for you night and day. My life has 
become an intolerable burden to me, and never in all the 
past has there been a more unhappy exile than I. The 
days pass like years, and the nights are worse. I am dragged 
here and there for the benefit of my health — what a miserable 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 


475 


farce it is ! For half the money I am spending here I could 
iive happily with you, and, sustained by your love and sym- 
pathy, I might do something befitting my man’ s estate. One 
day, when I said as much to my mother, her face grew cold 
and stern, and she replied that my views of life were as absurd 
as those of a child ! I often wish I were dead, and were it 
not for the thought of you I half fear that I might be tempted 
to end my wretched existence. Of course my health suffers 
from this constant unhappiness, repression, and humiliation. 
The rumor has reached me that your father has become very 
poor, and that he is in ill health. The little blood I have 
left crimsons my face with shame that I am not at your side 
to help and cheer you. But I fear I should be a burden to 
you, as I am to every one else. My fainting turns — one of 
which you saw — are becoming more frequent. I’ve no hope 
nor courage to try to get well — I am just sinking under the 
burden of my unhappy, unmanly life, and my best hope may 
soon be to become unconscious and remain so forever. And 
yet I fully believe that one kind word from you would in- 
spire me with the wish, the power to live. My mother is 
blind to everything except her worldly maxims of life. She 
means to do her duty by me, and is conscientious in her way, 
but she is killing me by slow torture. If you would give me 
a little hope, if you would wait — oh, pardon the selfishness 
of my request, the pitiable weakness displayed in this appeal ! 
Yet, how can I help it ? Who can sink into absolute despair 
without some faint struggle — some effort to escape. I have 
nad the happiness of heaven in your presence, and now I am 
as miserable as a lost soul. You have only to say that there 
is no hope, and I will soon cease to trouble you or any one 
much longer.' 

“ How can I tell him there is no hope ?” she murmured. 
“ It would be murder — it would be killing soul and body. 
What’s more, I love him — God knows I love him. My heart 


47 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


just yearns for him in boundless pity and sympathy, and I 
feel almost as if he were my crippled, helpless child as well as 
lover. It would be cruel, selfish, and unwomanly to desert 
him because of his misfortune. I haven’ t the heart to do it 
His weakness and suffering bind me to him. His appeal to 
me is like the cry of the helpless to God, and how can I de- 
stroy his one hope, his one chance ? He needs me more 
than does Roger, who is strong, masterful, and has a grand 
career before him. In his varied activities, in the realiza- 
tion of his ambitious hopes, he will overcome his present 
feelings, and become my brother in very truth. He will 
marry some rich, splendid girl like Miss Wetheridge by and 
by, and I shall be content in lowly, quiet ministry to one 
whose life and all God has put into my hands. His parents 
treat Vinton as if he were a child ; but he has reached the age 
when he has the right to choose for himself, and, if the worst 
comes to the worst, I could support him myself. Feeling as 
I do now, and as I ever shall, now that my heart has been re- 
vealed to me, I could not marry Roger. It would be wrong- 
ing him and perjuring myself. He is too grand, too strong 
a man not to see the facts in their true light, and he will still 
remain the best friend a woman ever had. ’ ’ 

Then, with a furtive look at Belle to see that she was 
sleeping soundly, she wrote : “ Dear Vinton : My heart 

would indeed be callous and unwomanly did it not respond 
to your letter, over which I have shed many tears. Take all 
the hope you can from the truth that I love you. and can 
never cease to love you. You do yourself injustice. Your 
weakness and ill health are misfortunes for which you are not 
responsible. So far from inspiring disgust, they awaken my 
sympathy and deepen my affection. You do not know a 
woman’s heart — at least you do not know mine. In youl 
constant love, your contempt for heartless, fashionable life, 
and your wish to do a man’s part in the world, you are manly 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN. 


477 


\ ou are right also in believing that if you lived in an at- 
mosphere of respect and affection you would so change for 
the better that you would not recognize yourself. For my 
sake as well as your own, try to rally, and make the most of 
your sojourn abroad. Fix your mind steadily on some pur- 
suits or studies that will be of use to you in the future. Do 
not fear ; I shall wait. It is not in my nature to forget or 
change/' And with some reference to their misfortunes, a 
repetition of her note which Jotham had lost, and further re- 
assuring words, she closed her letter. 

* ‘ I am right, ’ ' she said ; ‘ ‘ even Roger will say I am doing 
right I could not do otherwise." 

Having made a copy of the letter that she might show it 
to Roger, she at last slept, in the small hours of the night. 
As early as possible on the following day she mailed the let- 
ter, with a prayer that it might not be too late. 

A day or two later she sought a private interview with her 
friend, and whispered, ‘ ‘ Roger, dear Roger, if you do not 
fail me now you will prove yourself the best and bravest man 
in the world. I am going to repose a trust in you that I 
cannot share at present with any one else — not even my 
mother. It would only make her unhappy now that she is 
reviving in our brighter days. It might have a bad influ- 
ence on papa, and it is our duty to shield him in every 
way." 

She told him everything, made him read the copy of her 
letter to Arnold. "You are strong, Roger," she said in 
conclusion, “ and it would kill him, and — and I love him. 
You know now how it has all come about, and it does not 
seem in my nature to change. I have given you all I can — 
my absolute trust and confidence. I’ve shown you my 
whole heart. Roger, you won’t fail me. I love you so 
dearly, I feel so deeply for you, I am so very grateful, that I 
believe it would kill me if this should harm you," 


478 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


He did not fail her, but even she never guessed the effort 
he made. 

“ It’s all right, Millie/’ he said with a deep breath, “ and 
I’ll be a jolly bachelor for you all my life.” 

** You must not say that,” she protested. ” One of these 
days I’ll pick you out a far better wife than I could ever be.” 

“ No,” he replied decisively, “ that’s the one thing I 
won’t do for you, if you picked out twenty score.” 

He tried to be brave — he was brave ; but for weeks there- 
after traces of suffering on his face cut her to the heart, and 
she suffered with him as only a nature like hers was capable of 
doing. Events were near which would tax his friendship to 
the utmost 

August was passing with its intense heat. The streets of the 
locality wherein the Jocelyns lived were shamefully neglected, 
and the sewerage was bad. Mr. Jocelyn was one of the first 
to suffer, and one day he was so ill from malarial neuralgia 
that he faltered in the duties of his business. 

“ I can’t afford to be ill,” he said to himself. “ A slight 
dose of morphia will carry me through the day ; surely I’ve 
strength of mind sufficient to take it once or twice as a med- 
icine, and then plenty of quinine will ward off a fever, and I 
can go on with my work without any break or loss ; mean- 
while I’ll look for rooms in a healthier locality.” 

His conscience smote him, warned him, and yet it did 
not seem possible that he could not take a little as a remedy, 
as did other people. With the fatuity of a self-indulgen* 
nature he remembered its immediate relief from pain, and for 
got the anguish it had caused. He no more proposed to re- 
new the habit than to destroy his life — he only proposed to 
tide himself over an emergency. 

The drug was taken, and to his horror he found that it was 
the same as if he had kindled a conflagration among combus- 
tibles ready for the match, His old craving asserted itself 


HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN 


479 


with all its former force. His will was like a straw in the 
grasp of a giant. He writhed, and anathematized himself, but 
soon, with the inevitableness of gravitation, went to another 
drug store and was again enchained. * 

For a few days Mr. Jocelyn tried to conceal his condition 
from his family, but their eyes were open now, and they 
watched him at first with alarm, then with terror. They plead- 
ed with him ; his wife went down on her knees before him ; 
but, with curses on himself, he broke away and rushed forth, 
driven out into the wilderness of a homeless life like a man 
possessed with a demon. In his intolerable shame and re- 
morse he wrote that he would not return until he had regained 
his manhood. Alas 1 that day would never come. 

* It is a sad fact that more than half of those addicted to the 
opium habit relapse. The causes are varied, but the one given is 
the most common : it is taken to bridge over some emergency or 
to give relief from physical pain or mental distress. The infatu- 
ated victim says, “ I will take it just this once,” and then he goes 
or. taking it until it destroys him. I have talked with several who 
have given way for the second and third time, and with one physician 
who has relapsed five times. They each had a somewhat different 
story to tell, but the dire results were in all cases the same. After 
one indulgence, the old fierce craving, the old fatal habit, was agair 
fixed, with more than its former intensity and binding power. 


*8o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

WAS BELLE MURDERED? 

M RS. WHEATON, Mr. Wentworth, and Roger did 
what they could for the afflicted family, and 
Roger spent the greater part of several nights in a vain 
search for the absent man, but he had hidden himself too 
securely, and was drowning reason, conscience, his entire 
manhood, in one long debauch. The young man grew more 
haggard than ever in his deep sympathy for his friends, for 
they clung to him with the feeling that he only could help 
them effectually. He begged them to move elsewhere, 
since the odors of the place were often sickening, but they 
all said No, for the husband and father might return, and 
this nof was d.eir one hope concerning him. 

In the second fall of her husband Mrs. Jocelyn seemed to 
have received her death-wound, for she failed visibly every 
day. 

One night Belle was taken with a severe chill, and then 
fever and delirium followed. When Roger came the ensu- 
ing evening, Mildred sobbed on his shoulder. 

“Oh, Roger, my heart is paralyzed with dread. The skies 
you were making so bright for us have become black with 
ruin. You are the only one who brings me any hope or 
comfort. Come with me. Look at Belle there. She 
doesn't know any of us. For the last hour her mind has 
wandered. Half the time she is thanking you for all that 
you have done for us ; then she calls for papa, or is away in 
the country. The doctor has been here, and be looked very 


IV AS BELLE MURDERED ? 481 

g^ve. He says it’s all due to the bad sanitary condition of 
this pai ; of the city, and that there are other cases just like 
it, ana that they are hard to manage. Why didn’t we move 
before ? Oh, oh, oh !” and she cried as if her heart would 
break. 

“ Don’t grieve so, Millie,” Roger faltered. *' I nevei 
could stand it to see tears in your eyes. Belle is young and 
vigorous ; she’ll pull through.” 

“ I hope so. Oh, what should we do if she should — 
But the doctor says the fever takes a stronger hold on persons 
of full habit like Belle, and now that I’ve made inquiries I 
find that it has been fatal in several instances. We have been 
so troubled about papa that we thought of nothing else, and 
did not realize our danger. There are two cases like Belle’s 
across the way, and one in this house, and none of them are 
expected to live.” 

“ Millie,” said Roger resolutely, “ I won’t even entertain 
the thought of Belle’s dying. I’m going to stay with you 
every night until she is out of danger. I can doze here in 
this chair, and I should be sleepless with anxiety anywhere 
else. You must let me become a brother now in very truth. ” 

“ No, Roger, we can’t permit it. You might catch the 
fever. ’ ’ 

“ Millie, I will stay. Do you think I could leave you to 
meet this trouble alone ? I can relieve you in many ways, 
and give you and your mother a chance for a little rest 
Besides, what is the fever to me ?” he added, with a touch of 
recklessness which she understood too well. 

“ Roger,” she said gravely, “ think what your life and 
health are to me. If you should fail me I should despair.” 

“ I won’t fail you,” he replied, with a little confident nod. 
“ You will always find me on hand like a good-natured 
dragon whenever you are in trouble. The first thing to do 
is to send these children to the country, and out of thi* 


d.6 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


poisoned air/' and he sat down at once and wrote to hia 
mother and Clara Wilson, formerly Clara Bute. Then, 
true to his word, he watched with Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn 
every night. Frequently his hand upon the brow of the 
delirious girl would quiet her when nothing else could, and 
Mildred often saw his tears falling fast on the unconscious face. 

Mrs. Wilson answered his letter in person. “ I couldn’t 
wait a minute, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I went right over to Mrs. At- 
wood’ s and told her that no one could have the children but 
me, and my husband says they can stay until you want them 
back. He is so good to me! Dear little Belle!” she 
sobbed, bending over the sufferer, “ to think that I once so 
misjudged you ! A better-hearted girl never breathed. As 
soon as she’s able to be moved you must bring her right to 
me, and I’ll take care of her till she’s her old rosy, beautiful 
self. No, I’ll come for her. I wish I could take her in my 
arms and carry her home now. ’ ’ 

“ She often speaks of you,” faltered Mildred. ” Indeed 
she seems to be living all her old life over again. ’ ’ 

The doctor looked graver every day, and at last held out 
no hope. Late one night they saw that the crisis was near. 
Belle was almost inanimate from weakness, and Mrs. Joce- 
lyn, Mildred, and Roger sat beside her in the large living- 
room, into which they had moved her bed, so that if possible 
she might get a little air— air that was laden with vile, stifling 
odors. At last the feeble tossings of the poor sufferer ceased, 
and she looked around intelligently. Her mother kissed her, 
and said soothingly, ‘ ‘ Sleep, dear, and you’ 11 soon be better. ’ ’ 
She shook her head, and continued to look as if in search 
of some one, and then whispered, 

“ Where is papa ?” 

“ You are not strong enough to see him now,” her mothei 
replied with pallid lips, while Mildred put her hand to hci 
side from the intolerable pain in her heart 


WAS BELLE MURDERED ? 


4 *2 


Belle lay still a few moments, and they breathed low in 
their suspense. Her mother kept her soothing touch upon 
her brow, while Mildred held her hand. At last two great 
tears rolled down the poor girl’s face, and she said faintly, 
“ I remember now.” 

“ Oh, Belle, darling, sleep,” murmured her mother, “ and 
you will soon get well.” Again she slowly shook her head. 
“Dear little mother,” she whispered, “forgive naughty 
Belle for all her wild ways. You were always patient with 
me. Pray God to forgive me, for I’m going fast. If He's 
like you — I won’t fear Him.” 

Mrs. Jocelyn would have fallen on her child if Roger had 
not caught her and placed her gently on the lounge, where 
she lay with dry, tearless eyes and all the yearnings of the 
mother-heart in her wan face. Belle’s eyes followed her 
wistfully, then turned to Mildred. 

“ Good-by, Millie darling, best of sisters. You will have 
a long — happy life — in spite of all.” 

Mildred clung to her passionately, but at Belle’s faint call 
for Roger she knelt at the bedside and looked with streaming 
eyes on the near approach of death. 

“ Roger,” Belle whispered, “ lift me up. I want to die 
on your breast — you saved me — you know. Take care Mil- 
lie — mamma — little ones. Don’t wake them. Now — tell 
me — some — thing — comforting out of — the Bible.” 

“ ‘ God is not willing that one of His little ones should 
perish,’ ” said the young fellow brokenly, thankful that he 
could recall the words. 

“ That’s sweet — I’m — one of His — littlest ones. It’s— 
getting — very dark — Roger. I know — what it — means. 
Good — by. We’ 11 — have — good — times — together — yet. ’ ’ 

'Hien came that absolute stillness which he understood too 
well. He bowed his head upon the cold brow of the dead 
girl, and wept as only strong men weep in their first great 


484 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


sorrow. Mildred almost forgot her own grief in trying to 
lead him away and to comfort him, but he clung convulsively 
to Belle’s lifeless form. At last he broke almost frantically 
away. 

“ Roger, Roger,” cried Mildred, “ where are you going? 
What are you going to do ?” 

“ I don’t know — I must have air or my heart will break ; 
I’ll go mad. She’s just been murdered, murdered ,” and he 
rushed out. 

After a little while he returned, and said, “ There, Millie, 
I’m better. I won’t give way again,” and he took her in 
his arms and let her cry away some of the pain in her heart 

Mrs. Jocelyn still lay upon the sofa, white as marble, and 
with dry, dilated eyes. She was far beyond tears. 

******** 

On the day following Belle’s death the Hon. 

sat down to a sumptuous dinner in one of the most fashion- 
able of the Saratoga hotels. A costly bottle of wine added 
its ruddy hue to his florid complexion. The waiters were 
obsequious, the smiling nods of recognition from other dis- 
tinguished guests of the house were flattering, and as the 
different courses were brought on, the man became the pic- 
ture of corpulent complacence. His aspect might have 
changed could he have looked upon the still form of the once 
frolicsome, beautiful girl, who had been slain because he had 
failed so criminally in fidelity to his oath of office. It would 
not have been a pleasant task for him to estimate how much 
of the money that should have brought cleanliness and health 
among the tenements of the poor was being worse tha* 
wasted on his own gross personality. 


THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM. 485 


CHAPTER xliv. 

THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM. 

T HE glowing September sun had rarely revealed a saddet 
group than that which still watched beside poor Belle. 
At last Roger looked at his watch and said, 

44 I will now go and see Mr. Wentworth, and bring Mrs. 
Wheaton. ’ ' 

44 Very well, Roger/’ Mildred replied, “ we leave every* 
thing in your hands.' ' 

44 Millie, I can’t bear to have Belle placed in one of the 
crowded city cemeteries. Would you not be willing to have 
her sleep in our tree-shadowed graveyard at Forestville ? 
We could keep flowers on her grave there as long as we 
lived. ’ ’ 

44 Oh, Roger, how kind of you to think of that ! It would 
be such a comfort to us !" 

4 4 I will take her there myself on the evening boat, ' ' he 
said decisively, and he hastened away feeling that he must 
act promptly, for his aching head and limbs led him to fear 
that Belle’s fever was already in his veins. Mr. Wentworth 
overflowed with sympathy, and hastened to the afflicted family 
with nourishing delicacies. Mrs. Wheaton soon followed, 
tearful and regretful. 

44 I didn’t know," she said ; 44 I’ve 'ad asick child or T 'd 
a been hover before. Not 'earing from you I thought hall 
vas veil, and there’s the poor dear dead, an’ I might 'ave 
done so much for 'er." 

14 No, Mrs. Wheaton, all was done that could be done ia 


4 86 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


this poisoned air. We feared you might catch the fever it 
you came, and we knew you would come/’ 

“ Hindeed I vould, if you hall 'ad the small-pox. Now 
I'm going to do heverything, ” and she fretted at every effort 
of the exhausted watchers to help her. 

Roger telegraphed his father to meet him at the boat with 
the village hearse. The news spread fast, and the little com- 
munity was soon deeply stirred with sympathetic interest. 
Mrs. Jocelyn was too weak to endure the journey, and Mil- 
dred would not leave her. Therefore Mr. Wentworth held 
a simple, heartfelt service over the one they all so loved, and 
Roger departed on his sad errand. He was eager to get 
away, and, if the thought of Belle had not been uppermost 
in all minds, it would have been seen that he was far from 
well in spite of his almost desperate efforts to hide his illness. 
His father found him on the boat delirious with fever. The 
old man's face was haggard and drawn as he returned tc 
Forestville with his two helpless burdens, grieving far more 
for the one that was ill than for the one that was dead. “It’s 
turning out j ust as brother Ezra said, ’ ’ he growled. ‘ ‘ A man’ s 
a fool to mix himself up with other people’s troubles." The 
interest in the village deepened into strong excitement when 
it became known that Roger was ill with the fever that had 
caused Belle’s death, some timid ones fearing that a pesti- 
lence would soon be raging in their midst But the great 
majority yielded to their good impulses, and Mrs. Atwood 
was overwhelmed with offers of assistance. Several young 
farmers to whom Belle had given a heartache a few weeks 
before volunteered to watch beside her until the funeral, and 
there was a deeper ache in their hearts as they sat reverently 
around the fair young sleeper. The funeral was a memo- 
rable one in Forestville, for the most callous heart was 
touched by the pathos of the untimely death. 

Meanwhile poor Roger was tossing in fever and muttering 


the final con sola TIONS OF OPIUM. 487 

constantly of his past life. The name, however, oftenest on 
his lips was that of Millie Jocelyn. 

Never before in all the troubled past did the poor girl so 
need his sustaining love as on the night he left her. Mr. 
Wentworth spent an hour with the sad mother and daughter 
after the others had gone, and then sorrowfully departed, 
saying that he had an engagement out of town, and that he 
would come again immediately on his return. Mrs. Wheaton 
had gone hume, promising that she would come back in the 
evening and spend the night with them, for she had a neigh- 
bor who would take care of the children, and so at last 
the two stricken women were left alone. 

Mildred was bathing her mother’s head and trying to com- 
fort her when the door opened, and a haggard, unkempt man 
stood before them. For a second they looked at him in 
vague terror, for he stood in a deep shadow, and then Mrs. 
Jocelyn cried, “ Martin! Martin 1” and tears came to hei 
relief at last. 

He approached slowly and tremblingly. Mildred was 
about to throw herself into his arms, but he pushed her away. 
His manner began to fill them with a vague, horrible dread, 
for he acted like a spectre of a man. 

‘ * Where are the children ?’ * he asked hoarsely. 

“ We have sent them to the country. Oh, papa, do be 
kind and natural — you will kill mamma.” 

“There is crape on the door-knob,” he faltered 
\ Where’s Belle ?” 

Oh, oh, oh !” sobbed Mildred. “ Papa, papa, have 
mercy on us. Can’t you sustain and help us at such a time 
as this ?’ ' 

“ She is dead, then,” he whispered, and he sank into a 
chair as if struck down. 

“ Yes, she’s dead. You were the first one she asked fo/ 
when she came out of her fever.” 


488 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Great God ! my punishment is greater than I can bear/’ 
he groaned. 

“Oh, Martin,” pleaded his wife, “come to me,” and 
too weak to rise from her couch she held out her arms to 
him. 

He looked at her with a remorse and agony in his expres- 
sion that were indescribable. “No, Nan,” he said, “I’m 
not fit for you to touch now. I’m murdering you all,” and 
he went hastily to his room and locked the door. 

They waited, scarcely breathing in their deep apprehension. 

In a few moments he came out, and his face was rigid and 
desperate in its aspect. In spite of his repelling gesture Mib 
dred clasped him in her arms. The embrace seemed to tor- 
ture him. “ Let me go !” he cried, breaking away. “ 1 
poison the very air I breathe. You both are like angels of 
heaven and I — O God ! But the end has come,” and he 
rushed out into the gathering darkness. Mrs. Jocelyn tried 
to follow him, and fell prostrate with a despairing cry on the 
floor. 

Mildred’s first impulse was to restore her mother, without 
seeking help, in the faint hope that her father would re- 
turn, for she had learned what strange alternations of mood 
opium produces ; but as the sense of his words grew clearer 
she was overpowered, and trembled so violently that she was 
compelled to call to her help a neighbor — a plain, good- 
hearted woman who lived on the same floor. When at last 
Mrs. Jocelyn revived she murmured piteously, 

“ Oh, Millie, why didn’t you let me die ?” 

“ Mamma,” pleaded the girl, “ how can you even think 
of leaving me ?” 

“ Millie, Millie darling, I fear I must. My heart feels as 
it it were bleeding internally. Millie”— and she grasped her 
child’s shoulder convulsively, “ Millie, look in his room for 
—for — his pistol.” 


THE FINAL CON SOLA TIONS OF OPIUM . 489 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma !” 

“ Look, look !’ ’ said her mother excitedly. “ I can’t bear 
the suspense. ' ’ 

Thinking that her mother was a little hysterical, and that 
compliance would quiet her, Mildred went to the place where 
her father always kept his cavalry revolver — the one memento 
left of his old heroic army life. It was gone l 

She almost sank to the floor in terror, nor did she dare 
return to her mother. 

“ Millie, Millie, quick 1” came In a faint cry from the 
outer room. 

The poor girl rushed forward and buried her face in her 
mother’s bosom, sobbing, “ Mamma, oh mamma, live for 
my sake. ’ ' 

“ I knew it, I knew it,” said the stricken wife, with a long 
low cry. “ I saw it in his desperate face. Oh, Martin, 
Martin, we will die together !” 

She clasped Mildred tightly, trembled convulsively a 
moment, and then her arms fell back, and she was as still as 
poor Belle had been. 

“ Oh, mamma !” Mildred almost shrieked, but she was far 
beyond recall,. and the suffering heart was at rest. 

When the woman returned with the cup of tea she had gone 
to prepare for Mrs. Jocelyn, she found the young girl leaning 
forward unconscious on the bosom of the dead mother. 

When she revived it was only to moan and wring her hands 
in despair. Mrs. Wheaton soon appeared, and having 
learned what had happened she threw her apron over her 
head and rocked back and forth in her strong sympathetic 
grief. But her good heart was not long content with tear^ 
and she took Mildred into her arms and said, 

I vill be a mother to you, and you shall never vant a 
’ome vile I ’ave von,” and the motherless girl clung to hef 
in a way that did the kind soul a world of good. 


490 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Before the evening was very far advanced a boy brought a 
note to the door. Mildred seized it and asked, 

" Who gave it to you ?” 

“I don’t know — a man. He pointed to this door, and 
then he went away very fast.” 

She tore it open, and read in horror : “ My darling wife, 
dear beyond all words in these my final despairing moments. 
My love for you and those left is the only trace of good re- 
maining in my heart. I die for your sakes. My continued 
existence would be a curse, for I have lost my manhood. I 
am possessed by a devil that I can’t control. I cannot ask 
you to forgive me. I can never forgive myself. Farewell. 
After I am gone, brighter days will come to you all. Pity 
me if you can, forgive me if you can, and remember me as I 
was before — ” And there the terrible missive ended. 

For an hour the girl lay moaning as if in mortal pain, and 
then the physician who was summoned gave her a sedative 
which made her sleep long and heavily. It was quite late 
m the morning when she awoke, and the events that had 
passed first came to her like a horrid dream, and then grew 
into terrible reality. But she was not left to meet the 
emergency alone, for Mrs. Wheaton and Clara Wilson 
watched beside her. The latter in her strong sympathy had 
com© to the city to take Mildred and her mother to the coun- 
try, and she said to Mrs. Wheaton that she would now never 
leave her friend until she was in the breezy farm-house. 

After a natural outburst of grief Mildred again proved that 
Arnold’s estimate of her was correct. She was equal to even 
this emergency, for she eventually grew quiet and resolute. 
" I must find papa,” she said. 

“ Shall I ?’ ’ Mrs. Wilson asked Mrs. Wheaton significantly. 

“ Yes, Millie is more hof a soldier than hany hof us.” 

"Well,” continued Mrs. Wilson, “ Mrs. Wheaton found 
this in the morning paper : ‘ An unknown man committed 


THE FINAL CONSOLA TIONS OF OPIUM 491 


suicide on the steps of No. 73 Street. His remains 

have been taken to the Morgue for identification/ ” 

For a few moments Mildred so trembled and looked so 
crushed that they feared for her exceedingly. ‘ ‘ Poor papa !” 
she moaned, “ he was just insane from remorse and opium. 

Seventy-three Street ! Why, that was the house in 

which we used to live. It was there that papa spent his first 
happy years in this city, and it was there he went to die. Oh, 
how dreadful, how inexpressibly sad it all is ! What shall we 
do?” 

“ Leave hall to me,” said Mrs. Wheaton. “ Mrs. Wil- 
son, you stay ’ ere with the poor dear, an ' V 11 hattend to hevery- 
thing. * * 

Mildred was at last too overpowered to do more than lie 
on the lounge, breathing in long tremulous sighs. 

Mrs. Wheaton went at once to the Morgue and found that 
the “ unknown man” was indeed Mr. Jocelyn, and yet he 
had so changed, and a bullet-hole in his temple had given him 
such a ghastly appearance, that it was difficult to realize that 
he was the handsome, courtly gentleman who had first brought 
his beautiful daughter to the old mansion. 

Mrs. Wheaton represented to the authorities that he was 
very poor, that his daughter was an orphan and overcome 
with grief, and that she now was the nearest friend of the 
afflicted girl. Her statement was accepted, and then with 
her practical good sense she attended to everything. 

During her absence Mildred had sighed, “ Oh, I do so 
wish that Roger Atwood were here ! He gives me hope and 
courage when no one else can.” 

“ Millie,” said Mrs. Wilson tearfully, ‘‘for his sake you 
must rally and be braver than you have ever been before. I 
think his life now depends upon you. He has the fever, and 
in his delirium he calls for you constantly.” 

At first Mrs. Wilson thought the shock of her tidings would 


492 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


be more disastrous to the poor girl, already so unnerved and 
exhausted, than all the terrible events which had thus far 
occurred. ‘ ‘ I have brought him nothing but suffering and 
misfortune," she cried. “He gave up everything for us, 
and now we may cost him his life. ' ’ 

‘ ‘ Millie, he is not dead, and you, if any one, can bring 
him life." 

She had touched the right chord, for the young girl soon 
became quiet and resolute. “ He never failed me," she 
said in a low voice, “ and I won’t fail him." 

“ That is the right way to feel," said Mrs. Wilson eagerly. 
“ I now think that everything depends on your courage and 
fortitude. Mrs. Wheaton and I have planned it all out. 
We’ll go to Forestville on the evening boat, and take your 
father’ s and mother’ s remains with us. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Wheaton learned from the undertaker connected with 
Mr. Wentworth's chapel that the clergyman would not be 
back until evening, and she told the former to tell their pas- 
tor all that had occuired, and to ask him to keep the circum- 
stances of Mr. Jocelyn’s death as quiet as possible. 

The man was discreet and energetic, and they were all so 
expeditious that the evening saw them with their sad freight 
on the way to Forestville, the keys of Mildred’ s rooms hav- 
ing been left with the kind woman who had befriended her 
in the sudden and awful emergency. Mrs. Wheaton parted 
from Mildred as if she were her own child, and went mourn- 
fully back to her busy, useful life. Mr. and Mrs. Jocelyn 
were buried with a quiet, simple service beside poor Belle, 
and sensible Mrs. Wilson soon inspired the good-hearted vil- 
lage people with the purpose to spare the feelings of the 
stricken girl in every possible way. Mildred caressed her 
little brother and sister with the tenderness of a mother added 
to her sisterly affection, and she was comforted to see how 
much they had already improved in the pure country air 


THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM . 493 

14 Oh, Clara," she said, “ what a friend you have been to 
me ! God alone can repay you. ’ ’ 

44 Millie," Mrs. Wilson earnestly replied, 44 I owe you a 
debt I can never pay. I owe you and darling Belle happi- 
ness and prosperity for this life, and my hope of the life to 
come. My husband is strong and prosperous, and he says I 
shall do all that’s in my heart for you. Oh, Millie, he is so 
good to me, and he cried over Belle like a child. I thought 
I loved him before, but when I saw those tears I just wor- 
shipped him. He has a man’s heart, like Roger. Now, 
Millie, I’m going to keep these children as long as you’ll 
let me, and treat them as my own. I feel that the promise 
has been given to me that they’ 11 grow up to be a great com- 
fort to us both." 

On the evening after the funeral Mildred went to aid in 
the care of Roger, and Mrs. Atwood greeted her with all the 
warmth and tenderness that a daughter would have received. 
Even Mr. Atwood drew his sleeve across his eyes as he said, 
44 If you’ll help us save our boy, you’ll find that I’m not as 
crabbed and crooked a stick as I seem. ’ ’ 

Mildred was shocked and her heart chilled with fear at the 
change in Roger, but her hand upon his brow and her voice 
did more to quiet him than all the physician’s remedies. 
She became his almost tireless watcher, and she said hope- 
fully that the bracing autumn winds rustled around the farm- 
house like the wings of ministering angels, and that they 
would bring life and health to the fever-stricken man. They 
all wondered at her endurance, for while she looked so frail 
she proved herself so strong. At last the crisis came, as it 
had in Belle’s case, but instead of waking to die he passed 
from delirium into a quiet sleep, Mildred holding his hand, 
and when he opened his eyes with the clear glance of intelli- 
gence, they first looked upon her dear face. “ Millie," he 
whispered. 


494 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


She put her fingers upon her lips, smiled, and said, “I 
won’t leave you if you will be good and do all I say. You 
never failed me yet, Roger, and you must not now. ” 

“I’ll surely get well if you stay with me, Millie,” he 
answered contentedly, and soon slept again as quietly as 
a child. 


MOTHER AND SON. 


40S 


CHAPTER XLV. 


MOTHER AND SON 



UR story passes rapidly over the events of the ensuing 


months. In his native mountain air, and under the 
impulse of his strong, unbroken constitution, Roger recovered 
rapidly and steadily. As soon as he was strong enough he 
went to the village cemetery, and, leaning his head on Belle's 
grave, sobbed until Mildred led him away. For a long time 
tears would come into his eyes whenever the names of Mrs. 
Jocelyn and the young girl he loved so fondly were men- 
tioned. He and Mildred planted the sacred place thick 
with roses and spring-flowering bulbs. 

Mildred resisted all entreaties to remain in the country 
saying that she was a city girl at heart, and that, with Mr. 
Wentworth’s aid, she could easily earn her livelihood in 
town, and do much for Fred and Minnie. Moreover, she 
felt that she could not be parted from Roger, for seemingly 
he had become an inseparable part of her life. The experi- 
ences he had shared with her were developing within him a 
strong and noble manhood, and he vowed that the young 
girl who had known so much sorrow should have all the 
happiness that he could bring to pass. 

When Mrs. Wheaton learned of Mildred’s purpose to re- 
turn to town, she took more commodious apartments in the 
old mansion, and set apart a room lor the young girl. She 
also sold most of her own things and took Mildred’s furniture 
out of storage, so that the place might seem familiar and 
homelike to her friend. 


49 * 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


When Roger had almost recovered his wonted health, Mrs. 
Atwood told her husband that he must go with her to visit 
his brother in town, for the worthy woman had a project on 
her mind which she carried out with characteristic directness 
and simplicity. 

They surprised Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Atwood at breakfast, 
and partook of the cheer offered them rather grimly and 
silently. After the meal was over Roger’s mother said, with- 
out any circumlocution, 

“ Brother-in-law, I’ve come to have a plain, honest talk 
with you, and if you’ re a true Atwood you’ 11 listen to me. 
I want your wife and my husband to be present. We are 
nigh of kin, but we are forgetting ties which the Lord hath 
ordained. Ezra, I believe you are a good man at heart, but, 
like my husband, you set too much store by things that per- 
ish in the using. My boy has taught me that there are bet- 
ter things in this world, and we’ 11 all soon be where we may 
look on money as a curse. You have not spoken to my son 
since last spring, and you’ve been cold toward us. I want 
you to know the truth, and realize what you’re doing ; then 
if you go on in this way, you must settle it with your own 
conscience and with a homely pathos all her own she told 
the whole story. 

The uncle at first tried to be grim and obstinate, but he 
soon broke down completely. “I’m glad you’ve come,’ 1 
he said huskily. * ‘ My conscience hasn’ t given me any peace 
for months, and I wanted to give in, but you know that it’s 
like drawing an eye-tooth for an Atwood to give in. I’m 
proud of the boy, and he’ll be a blessing to us all. He is a 
new departure in the family ; he’s got more brains than any 
of us, and with it all a big, brave heart. He shall marry the 
girl if he wants to ; and now that her old wretch of a father is 
dead, no harm need come of it. But they’re young ; they 
must wait until Roger is educated up to the best of ’ e<m 


MOTHER AND SON. 


497 


Well, now that I’ve given in, there shall be no half-way 
work, ’ ' and he insisted on sending for his lawyer and making 
his will in Roger s favor at once. 

“ I didn’t come for any such purpose as this,” said 
Roger’s mother, wiping her eyes, while his father could 
scarcely conceal his exultation ; ‘ ‘ but I felt that it was time 
for us to stop living like heathen, ’ * and after a visit of a very 
different nature from the one they had feared, the worthy 
couple returned to Forestville well content with the results of 
their expedition. 

Roger was jubilant over the news, and he hastened to im- 
part it to Mildred, who was spending the remaining weeks of 
her sojourn in the country with her friend Mrs. Wilson. 

“Millie,” he said, “you shall never want again. My 
good fortune would be nothing to me unless I shared it with 
you.” 

But she disappointed him by saying, “ No, Roger, you 
must let me live the independent life that my nature re- 
quires,” and the only concession that he could obtain from 
her was a promise to receive his aid should any emergency 
require it. 

Before Mildred’s return a letter from Vinton Arnold was 
forwarded to her at Forestville, and it must be admitted that 
it gave her sad heart something like a thrill of happiness. It 
was an eloquent and grateful outpouring of affection, and 
was full of assurances that she had now given him a chance 
for life and happiness. 

When she told Roger, he looked very grim for a moment, 
and then by a visible effort brightened up and said, “It’s all 
right, Millie.” After pacing the room for a few moments 
with a contracted brow, he continued, “ Millie, you must 
grant me one request — you must not say anything to Arnold 
about me.” 

“ How can I say anything then about myself?” she an* 


498 


WITH0U2' A HOME. 


swered. “ I want him to know that I owe everything to you, 
and I hope to see the day when you will be the closest ofc 
friends. ’ ' 

“ Well, that will be a good way on. I must see him first, 
and learn more about him ; and — well, friends related as 
Arnold will be to me are not common. I’ve too much of 
the old untamed man in me to go readily into that kind of 
thing. I will do anything in the world for you, but you 
must not expect much more till I have a few gray hairs in my 
head. Come, now, you must humor me a little in this affair ; 
you can say generally that some friends were kind, and all 
that, without much personal reference to me. If you should 
write as you propose, he might be jealous, or — worse yet — 
write me a letter of thanks. It may prevent complications, 
and will certainly save me some confoundedly disagreeable 
experiences. After I’ ve seen him and get more used to it all, 
I may feel differently. ’ ’ 

44 You certainly will, Roger. Your life will gradually be- 
come so rich, full, and happy, that some day you will look 
back in wonder at your present feelings. ’ ’ 

“ Life will be full enough if work can make it so ; but you 
must not expect me to outgrow this. It will strengthen with 
my years. It’s my nature as well as yours. But I foresee 
how it will be,” he continued despondently ; 44 I shall in- 
evitably be pushed farther and farther into the background. 
In your happy home life — ” 

Before he could utter another word Mildred was sobbing 
passionately. 4 4 Roger, ’ ’ she cried, 4 ‘ don’ t talk that way. 
I can’t bear it. If Vinton is jealous of you, if he fails in 
manly appreciation of you, I will never marry him. Strong 
as my love is for him, such a course would destroy it. 
There are certain kinds of weakness that I can’t and won’t 
tolerate.” 

He was surprised and deeply touched, for her manner was 


MOTHER AND SON 


499 


usually so quiet and well controlled that even he was at times 
tempted to forget how strong and passionate was her nature 
on occasions sufficient to awaken it “ There, Millie, 
I've hurt your feelings," he said remorsefully. “ Even I do 
not half understand your good, kind heart Well, you must 
have patience with me. When the right time comes my 
deeds will satisfy you, I think, though my words are now so 
unpromising. But please don’t deny me — don’t say any- 
thing about me until I give you permission. What has 
occurred between us is sacred to me — it’s our affair." 

“ Very well, if you so wish it ; but never even think again 
that you will ever be less to me than you are now." 

Nevertheless he went sadly away, saying to himself, “ She's 
sincere, Heaven knows, but what I said will be true in spite 
of her best intentions." 

The next day, after many farewells and an hour spent 
beside Belle's grave, Roger returned to the city, far better pre- 
pared for life’s battle than when he first left his native village. 
Two or three days later Mildred followed him, accompanied 
by Mrs. Wilson, who was determined to see her safely settled 
in Mrs. Wheaton’s care. Pain and pleasure were almost 
equally blended in Mildred’s experience as she looked upon 
the furniture and the one or two pictures that had escaped 
their poverty — all of which were so inseparable, in their asso- 
ciations, from those who were gone, yet never absent long 
from memory. But the pleasure soon got the better of the 
pain, for she did not wish to forget. Mrs. Wheaton’ s welcome 
was so hearty as to be almost overpowering, and when Roger 
appeared in the evening with a beautiful picture for her walls 
she smiled as she once thought she never could smile again. 
Mr. Wentworth also called, and was so kind and sympa- 
thetic that the young girl felt that she was far from friendless. 
“ T managed it," he whispered in parting, “ that there 
wa*; ittie public reference to your father’s sad end. Now, 


5°o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Millie, turn your thoughts toward the future. Let Rogei 
make you happy. Believe me, he’s pure gold.” 

“ Just what poor Belle said,” she thought sighingly after 
he had gone. ‘ ‘ I must disappoint them all. But Rogei 
will help me out. He deserves a far better wife than poor 
shamed, half-crushed Millie Jocelyn can ever make him, and 
he shall have her, too, for he is much too young and strong 
not to get over all this before many years elapse. 

Life soon passed into a peaceful, busy routine. Roger was 
preparing himself for the junior class in college under the 
best of tutors, and his evenings, spent with Mildred, were 
usually prefaced by a brisk walk in the frosty air. Then he 
either read aloud to her or talked of what was Greek to good- 
natured Mrs. Wheaton, who sat knitting in a corner discreetly 
blind and deaf. Unknown to Mildred, he was able to aid, hei 
very efficiently, for he taxed Mrs. Wentworth’s ingenuity in 
the invention of all kinds of delicate fancy work, and that 
good lady, in the most business-like manner, gave the orders 
to Mildred, who thought that, considering the hard times, 
she was wonderfully prosperous. 

Twice during the winter she went with Roger to Forest- 
ville, and she had her little brother and sister spend the Christ- 
mas week with her. It was the brightest experience the little 
people ever remembered, although, unnoted by them, Mil- 
dred, with sad memories that do not belong to childhood, 
often wiped bitter tears from her eyes as she recalled the ter- 
rible events of the preceding holiday season. She became 
an efficient ally of Mr. Wentworth, and was almost as glad 
to aid him, in return for his stanch friendship, as the cause 
he represented. 

She and Vinton Arnold maintained quite a regular corre- 
spondence, and the fact occasioned the young man more 
than one stormy scene. His mother saw Mildred’s letter be- 
fore he received it, and the effect of the missive upon him, in 


MOTHER AND SON. 


5 01 

spite of his efforts at concealment, were so marked that she 
at once surmised the source from which it came; The fact 
that a few words from Mildred had done more for the invalid 
than all the expensive physicians and the many health resorts 
they had visited would have led most mothers to query 
whether the secret of good health had not been found. Mrs. 
Arnold, on the contrary, was only angered and rendered 
more implacable than ever against the girl. She wrote to her 
husband, however, to find out what he could about her fam- 
ily, believing that the knowledge might be useful. Mr. 
Arnold merely learned the bare facts that the Jocelyns had 
become greatly impoverished, that they were living in low 
lenements, that the father had become a wretched sot, and, 
worse than all, that the girl herself had been in a station- 
house, although he believed she was proved innocent of the 
charge against her. He therefore wrote to his wife that the 
correspondence must cease at once, since it might involve 
the family in disgrace — certainly in disgraceful associations. 
He also wrote to his son to desist, under the penalty of his 
heaviest displeasure. With an expression of horror on her 
face, Mrs. Arnold showed this letter to her son. In vain he 
tried to protest that not one evil thing against Mildred could 
be proved ; that she was innocence and purity itself ; that her 
misfortunes and the wrong of others were no reason for de- 
sertion on his part. His mother for once lost her frigid 
politeness. “ What 1” she almost screamed, “do you think 
we would ever let that horrid creature bear our name ? A 
woman who has been in a prison cell, and mixed up with the 
vilest and lowest people in the city, should not even be named 
in my presence/' 

Her son gave her a strange, vindictive look. “You un- 
natural mother," he muttered between his teeth, “ thus to 
speak of the girl to whom your son has given his best love, and 
who is worthy of it !" and he turned on his heel and left hes. 


502 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Mrs. Arnold became somewhat hysterical, and wrote home 
that she believed that Vinton was losing his mind. She soon 
learned, however, that she would have no ground for such a 
charge, although her son was becoming greatly changed. 
His politeness to her was scrupulous to a nicety, but was un- 
relenting in its icy coldness. At the same time she knew that 
he was continuing the correspondence, and she saw, too, 
that he was making the most studied and careful effort to 
gain in physical strength. One day she began to upbraid him 
bitterly for his disobedience, but he interrupted her by saying 
sternly, 

* ‘ Madam, there is no child present. I treat you with re- 
spect I also demand respect. ’ * 

The proud, resolute woman admitted to herself that his 
management was becoming a difficult and dubious problem, 
and at last, discouraged and exasperated by the unwavering 
steadfastness of his course and manner, she wrote that they 
might as well return home, for “ he was beyond her influ- 
ence. ’ * 

Therefore, thrilling with glad expectation, Arnold found 
himself in his native city much sooner than he had expected. 
He had no very definite plans. If he could only become 
sufficiently well to earn his own livelihood the future would 
be comparatively clear. If this were impossible, his best 
hope was to wait, secure in Mildred’s faith, for the chances of 
the future, believing that his father might relent if his mother 
would not. For this event, however, the outlook was un- 
promising. Mr. Arnold was incensed by his wife’s fuller 
account of his son’s behavior, and the proof she had obtained, 
in spite of his precautions, that he was in frequent corre- 
spondence with Mildred. Mr. Arnold had since learned the 
circumstances of Mr. Jocelyn’s wretched death, and that Mil- 
dred was but a sewing girl, living with an ignorant English 
woman in a dilapidated old tenement, and his bitter revolt at 


MOTHER AND SON. 


5<>3 

tue whole affair was quite natural in view of his superficial 
inquiries and knowledge. Both he and his wife judged from 
their proud and worldly standpoint solely, and therefore 
on the day following Vinton’s arrival they summoned him 
to a private interview. At first Mr. Arnold proposed to reason 
with his son, but the cold, unyielding face soon so irritated 
him that he became almost violent in his anger. After he 
and his mother had nearly exhausted themselves, Vinton said 
quietly, 

“ Now that you have both lectured and threatened me as 
if I were a boy, I would like to ask one question. Have I 
ever disgraced you yet ?” 

The husband and wife looked at each other, and were not 
a little perplexed how to meet this passive resistance. In 
the same low, incisive tones, Vinton continued, ‘ ‘ If you pro- 
pose to turn me into the streets for loving Miss Jocelyn, do 
so at once, for I do love her, and I shall ever love her.” 

“ She shall not touch a penny of our money,” said Mrs. 
Arnold, with an implacable look. 

“ With me,” replied her son, with the same old vindictive 
glance, ‘ 4 it is not a question of pennies, but of life and death. 

I feel toward Miss Jocelyn as I suppose my father once felt 
toward you, although what heart you had to win I cannot 
understand from your manner toward me. I have seen con- 
siderable of society, but have never met a woman who could 
compare with Mildred Jocelyn in all that constitutes a true 
lady. I shall not waste any words concerning the virtues of 
her heart upon such unsympathetic listeners, but I am at 
least a man in years, and have the right to love her.” 

“ Oh, certainly,” said Mrs. Arnold angrily, “ there is no 
law which can prevent your disgracing yourself and us.” 

“ Nor is there any law or gospel, madam, for your un- 
natural, unsympathetic course toward your own flesh and 
>lood. Good-evening. ’ ’ 


5°4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Now you see how strange and infatuated he has Be- 
come, ” she said to her husband after her son’s departure ; 
but the old merchant shook his head in trouble and per- 
plexity. 

“ We have been too hard upon him, I fear,” he said. 

“ If you weaken in this matter, I shall not,” she answered 
decisively. ‘‘If he gives way to this folly, both I and my 
children will disown all kith and kin. ’ ’ 

“Well, well,” he replied impatiently, “ it will have to 
be so, I suppose ; but nevertheless I believe we p. 

with him. ' ’ 


A FA TAL ERROR. 


CHAPTER XL VL 

A FATAL ERROR. 

HE next morning Arnold started out to visit the owe 



X rarely absent from his thoughts. It was a lovely day 
n the latter part of June, and his heart grew glad and hope- 
ful in spite of the discouraging conditions of his lot All 
the world could not prevent his loving Mildred, or destroy 
her faith, and at some time and in some way they would at- 
tain their happiness. These hopes were like the bright sum- 
mer sun, and he walked with a firmer and more elastic tread 
than he had ever known before. 

When he reached the haggard old mansion his heart mi? 
gave him. “Can it be reality,’ ’ he asked himself, “that 
she has been living in places like this ?’ ' and the half-defined 
fear entered his mind that she might have changed somewhat 
with her fortunes, and might no longer be in appearance the 
delicate, refined, beautiful girl that he had left so long since. 
But his impatient heart gave him no time for such imaginings, 
and he hastened to gratify his intense desire to look upon 
her face. 

In response to a low knock Mildred opened the door, and 
found herself in the arms of her lover. Then he held her 
©ff and looked at her earnestly. “ Oh, Millie !” he ex- 
claimed, ‘ ‘ you have only grown more beautiful, more 
womanly in these long, weary years. Your face is the reflex 
of the letters on which I have lived, and which gave me the 
%>ower to live.’* 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


v 


Soo 


Then in the excess of his joy he sank into a chair, and, 
putting his hand upon his heart, looked very pale. Sh& 
sprang to his side in alarm. “ Don’t worry, Millie/ ’ he 
said, taking her hand. “ It’s passing. I don’t have them 
very often now. I’m much better, thanks to you. Happi- 
ness rarely kills. 

It was well that Mrs. Wheaton and the children were out 
This scene would have been a great shock to the good 
woman, for she was Roger’s ally, heart and soul, and did 
not even know of Arnold’s existence. Since Arnold and 
Mildred were so fortunate as to be alone, they talked frankly 
over their old happy days, and as far as she could without 
breaking her promise to Roger, Mildred spoke cf the deep 
sorrows which had almost overwhelmed her during his absence. 

“ How my heart aches for you !” Arnold said. “ I never 
realized before what sad experiences you have passed through. 
The part which I can’ t endure is that I have been of no help 
to you. On the contrary, you reached out this little hand and 
saved, me. Everything has been just the opposite of what it 
ought to have been, and even now in these surroundings you 
are like a diamond in a dust-heap. Oh, how different it 
would all be if I had my way !” and he in turn told her quite 
frankly how he was situated. 

“ Vinton/’ she said earnestly, “ you must do all in your 
power to grow strong and make a place for yourself in the 
world. As you say, I cannot punish you for the pride and 
hostility of your parents ; I don’ t think of them, and I could 
never take any favors at their hands. As a man you have the 
right to choose for yourself, and can do so while maintaining 
the umost courtesy and respect toward your family. I don’t 
fear poverty — I’m used to it. The thing for you to do is to 
find some honest work that won’ t tax you too greatly, and 
gain strength in its performance.” 

“ Oh, Millie, how strong and true you are I I will take 


A FATAL ERROR. 


*** 

your advice in this as in all respects. But we shall have to 
wait a long time, I fear. I have so little knowledge of busi- 
ness, and I think my father, influenced by my mother, will 
thwart rather than help me. ' ’ 

“ Very well, I can wait/’ she answered smilingly. 

: Indeed I’d rather wait.” 

Now that her happiness seemed assured, however, she 
sighed over Roger so often and remorsefully that at last 
Arnold said, 

“You have some trouble on your mind, Millie ?” 

“You must not expect to find me a light-hearted girl any 
more,” she replied evasively. 

“ Well,” he said, as he clasped her closely in farewell, 
‘ ‘ my every waking thought shall now be how best to banish 
sighs and bring smiles. ’ ’ 

That evening, while they were out for a walk, Mildred 
said to Roger, with a little tremor in her voice, “ He’s 
come. ’ ’ 

He gave her a swift look, and then he turned as quickly 
away, but his arm grew rigid under her hand. 

“ Don’t fail me, Roger,” she pleaded. 

“ It’s unexpected — I wasn’t prepared,” he said, in a low 
tone, and then he was silent. He felt her hand trembling so 
greatly that he soon mastered himself for her sake. “ It’s all 
right, Millie,” he said heartily. “ Be just as happy as you 
can.” 

“ How can I be truly happy when you are not?” she 
sighed. 

‘ ‘ Bless your kind heart ! do you think I am going to 
stand off and lower at your happiness like a black cloud ? 
Do you think I’m going to droop, look forlorn and de- 
serted, and heave great sighs in dark corners ? By all the 
powers ! if I were capable of such meanness toward you, I'd 
whip myself worse than I did that fellow Bissel.” 


508 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Do you think I’ll feel for you any the less because you 
are so good and brave about it V ’ 

“ Oh, confound it !” he said impatiently, “ you must not 
feel too much. Spoiling your happiness won’t do me any 
good ; it would just make me savage.” 

She leaned her head for a second against his shoulder and 
said, “I’m not a bit afraid of you, Roger. 

“There, Millie,” he said quietly, “you always get the 
better of the old Satan in me, but I sometimes feel as if I 
could more easily tame a whole menagerie than my own 
nature. Come to think of it, it’s all turning out for the best. 
To-morrow I go home on quite a long vacation. Father isn’ t 
very well this summer, and I’m to take charge of the harvest 
for him.” 

“ Isn’t this plan a little sudden ?” she asked. 

“ Not more so than your news,” he replied grimly. 

“ Are you not willing to meet him yet ?” 

“ Not quite. After a few weeks in the fields I shall come 
back with the stoicism and appearance of a wild Indian. 
Come, Millie, I said I wouldn’ t fail you, nor shall I. Leave 
it all to me. I will explain to Mrs. Wheaton to-night, and to 
our other friends when the right time comes, and I will make 
it appear all right to them. If I justify you, they should have 
nothing to say. And now you have nothing to do but ac- 
cept your happiness and make the most of it. I still request 
that you do not speak of me to Arnold except in a casual 
way. When we meet you can introduce me simply as a 
friend who was kind during your troubles. I’ 11 soon know 
after we meet whether we can get on together, and if wt 
can’ t it will save complications for you as well as myself. 
You must let me serve you in my own way, and I think my 
judgment will be better than yours in this matter.” 

She was silent for a few moments, and by the light of a 
lamp he saw that her eyes were full of tears. ‘ ‘ Roger, ’ ' she 


A FA TAL ERROR. 


509 


said softly after a while, ‘ 4 1 sometimes think that my affec- 
tion for you is greater than my love for Vinton, but it is so 
different. It seems almost like my religion. You are a 
refuge for me, no matter what happens. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you, Millie, but I don’t deserve such honor.” 

Mrs. Wheaton could not be brought to look at the situ- 
ation as Roger did, and she accepted the fact of Vinton 
Arnold with but a grim acquiescence, which was not mollified 
by the young man’s manner toward her. While meaning to 
be very kind and polite, he was unconsciously patronizing. 
She belonged to a class with which he had never had much 
to do, and in his secret soul he chafed at her presence and 
her relations to Mildred. While in the abstract he might 
say that Mildred’s associations made no difference to him, 
he could not in fact overcome his lifelong prejudices, and 
Mildred’s surroundings were not at all to his taste. Luxury 
and the absence of all that was rude and coarse had become 
essential to him, and Mrs. Wheaton’s cockney English and 
homely life often gave him cold chills. 

Mildred in one respect disappointed him also, for she 
would take no aid from him, and would in no way deviate 
from her retired, independent life. li Even if my feelings 
and principles were not involved,” she said, “good taste 
requires that I conform to my circumstances.” 

She would take such quiet walks with him as his strength 
permitted, but would visit no places of public resort. In 
view of his family’s hostility to his course, Arnold did not so 
much regret this, and so it came about that they spent many 
of their evenings on the platform over the roof, with the old 
German astronomer, star-gazing and oblivious, not far away. 

While Mildred maintained her loyalty to her old friends, 
and her resolute plainness and simplicity of life, she consid- 
erately recognized that it was all so foreign to her lover’s 
vious experience that she could not expect him to feel 3S 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


5io 

did. Moreover, his presence renewed her old love for the re* 
fined and beautiful, and her heart, that had been so sad and 
preoccupied, awoke at last to the truth that she was out of 
her sphere — an exile far from the world her nature craved. 
Arnold seemed an inseparable part of that old world of beauty 
and elegance. His every act and word brought it back, and 
it caused a deepening regret that he was compelled to seek 
her in her present situation ; therefore she also began to 
share his ill-concealed wish that she might soon escape. 
Honestly as she loved Mrs. Wheaton, and would love her 
for all her kindness, the good woman’ s talk and ways often 
jarred discordantly on her nerves. Arnold soon discovered 
this fact, and it made him very impatient over the prospect 
of life long continued under its present aspects. He was 
conscious of Mrs. Wheaton’s latent hostility, and he had 
not the tact to conciliate her, nor indeed did he make very 
great effort to do so. Mildred was very sorry for this, but 
did not blame him greatly, for she knew her plain old friend 
could never be to him what she was to those who had learned 
her goodness and worth in emergencies that had levelled all 
external differences. 

But in spite of the ingredients brought by these facts and 
the memories of the past, Mildred found the cup of happi- 
ness which Arnold pressed to her lips sweet indeed. She had 
been exceedingly sorrowful for a long time, and it is contrary 
to nature that the young should cling to sorrow, however 
true and constant they may be. Her love was a part of 
her happy girlhood, and now it seemed to have the power to 
bring back some of her former girlish lightness of heart. 
The prospects offered by Arnold certainly had little to do 
with the returning tide of gladness which seemed bearing her 
from the dark, rugged shores on which she had been nearly 
wrecked. It was a buoyancy inherent within the love she 
Cherished, and her joy was s q sweet, so profound, thai 


A FA TAL ERROR. 


5 11 


shut her eyes to the future and thought, “For a few days, 
for a few weeks, we’ll just drink deeply at this life-giving 
fountain. After our long separation it will do us both more 
good than anything else.” 

She had said to Arnold that she was willing to wait, that 
she would rather wait, but she soon began to feel differently. 
Arnold infused into her nature some of his own dreamy, en- 
ervated spirit, and sometimes he would describe to her an 
imaginary home so exactly to her taste that she would sigh 
deeply ; and one day she remonstrated, ‘ ‘ Don’ t tantalize me 
with any more such exquisite mirages. Let us rather think 
of the best and quickest way to secure a real home, and let 
us be content in it, however humble it must be.” But 
Arnold was far better able to construct an imaginary palace 
than an ordinary cottage. Although he seemed gaining 
steadily under the impulse of his happiness, she often trem- 
bled to see how frail he was in body and how untrained and 
impracticable in mind. He was essentially the product of 
wealth, luxury, and seclusion, and while his intentions might 
be the best, she was sometimes compelled to doubt his ability 
to make much headway in the practical, indifferent world. 
Instead of being discouraged, she only thought, “ No one 
can ever doubt the genuineness of my love. Roger is rich 
already, and he is certain to become eminent, and yet my love 
is more than all the world to me, and I so long for a little 
nook of a home that I could call all my own, that I would 
be willing to marry Vinton at once and support him myself 
if his health required it. I don’t think I can be like other 
girls. I shall never get over my pride, but I haven’t a par- 
ticle of ambition. The world at large is nothing to me, and 
instead of wishing to shine in it, I am best pleased to escape 
its notice altogether. ’ ' 

Arnold’s family were as deeply perplexed as they were in- 
ceased at his course. He would not leave the city for any 


512 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


fashionable resort, and they well knew the reason. His 
father and mother hesitated in their departure, not knowing 
what “ folly,” as they termed it, he might be guilty of in 
their absence. They felt that they must bring the matter to 
some issue, and yet how to do so puzzled them greatly, for, 
as he had said, he had done nothing as yet to disgrace them, 
and his bearing toward them was as irreproachable as it was 
cold and dignified. 

At last, unknown to them, an elder brother undertook to 
solve the problem. He was a thorough man of the world, 
and his scrupulous compliance with the requirements of fash- 
ionable society led his mother to regard him as a model of 
propriety. In his private, hidden life he was as unscrupulous 
as the ultra fashionable often are. 

* ‘ Vinton, ’ ’ he said one day, ‘ ‘ what a fool you are mak- 
ing of yourself in this affair ! You have been brought up 
like a girl, and you are more simple and innocent than they 
average. I’ve seen your charmer, and I admit that she is i 
fine creature. As far as looks go, you show as much judg- 
ment as any man in town, but there your wits desert you. 
Girls in her position are not nice as to terms when they can 
greatly better themselves. You have money enough to lodge 
her like a princess compared with her present condition. 
Verbum sat sapienti. ’ ’ 

Vinton replied indignantly that he knew nothing about 
Mildred. 

“ Oh, I know all about women, ” was the confident reply ; 
“ have forgotten more than you ever knew.” 

Nevertheless this thought, like an evil seed, sprang up into 
a speedy but not rank growth. Arnold saw that his family 
would regard his marriage as an outrage which they would 
resent in every possible way, and that their hostility now was 
but an ill-concealed, smouldering fire. The relation to him 
would not be what his brother suggested, but as sacred and 


A FA TAL ERROR. 


5^3 


binding as marriage. His unhealthful reading, his long 
years abroad, and the radical weakness of his nature prepared 
him to accept this solution as the easiest and best that cir- 
cumstances permitted of. He justly doubted whether he 
would soon, if ever, gain the power of being independent. 
He knew nothing of business, and hated its turmoil and dis- 
tractions, and while for Mildred's sake he would attempt any- 
thing and suffer anything, he had all the unconquerable 
shrinking from a manful push out into the world which a 
timid man feels at the prospect of a battle. He had been 
systematically trained into weakness, and he felt that men, 
when he came to compete with them, would discover and 
take advantage of his defects. His cold, haughty reticence 
was but disguised timidity. In Mildred’s presence he even 
showed the best side of his nature, and his lonely, repressed 
life had always touched the tenderest chords of her heart. 
If their love had been smiled upon from the first, how differ- 
ent would have been his fate ! She would have tenderly 
developed his dwarfed, crushed manhood, and the result 
would have been happiness for them both. 

“ Millie/ ’ said Arnold, one starlit night, “do you care 
very much for the world’s opinions?" They were sitting 
on the platform above the old mansion. The German as- 
tronomer, after grumbling a while at an obscuring haze, had 
gone down-stairs in disgust, and left the lovers to themselves. 

“ No, Vinton, I never cared much for the world at any 
time, and now I have an almost morbid impulse to shrink 
from it altogether. I’m like my dear mamma. Home was 
her world. Poor, dear mamma !’’ and she buried hex face 
on his shoulder and shed tears that his presence robbed of 
much of their bitterness. 

‘ ‘ I not only do not care for the world, ’ ’ he said impetu- 
ously, “ but I hate it. I’ve been dragged through it, and 
have ever found it a desert, stony place. My heart just aches 


5i4 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


for the sweet quiet and seclusion of such a home as you could 
make, Millie. As it is, I have no home. A hollow iceberg 
could not be more cold and joyless than my present abode. 
Neither have you a home. It is only in stolen moments 
like these, liable to interruption, that we can speak of whar 
is in our hearts and then, prompted by his feelings, long- 
ings, and the apparently friendless condition of the girl whose 
head rested so trustingly on his breast, he broached the 
scheme of life that had taken possession of his imagination. 

At first, in her faith and innocence she scarcely understood 
him, but suddenly she raised her head, and looked at him 
with startled eyes. “ What !” she said, in trembling alarm, 
“no marriage? Mr. Wentworth and Roger Atwood not 
present ?” 

“ No minister could make our union more sacred than it 
would be to me,” he faltered, “ and as soon as my obdurate 
parents — ’ ’ 

She sprang to her feet, and exclaimed passionately, “I’d 
rather die ten thousand deaths than bring a blush of shame 
to Roger Atwood’s face.” Then she sank into her chair in 
an uncontrollable outburst of grief. He pleaded with her, 
but she was deaf ; he tried to caress her, but, although half 
unconscious from her agony, she repulsed him. “ Oh, oh,” 
she moaned, ‘ ‘ is this the sole reward of my fidelity ?’ ' 

“ Millie, Millie,” he entreated, “ you will kill me if you 
cannot control yourself. I will do anything you say — sub- 
mit to any terms. Oh, pity me, or I shall die.” 

“ Leave me,” she said faintly. 

Never, he cried ; “I’d sooner cast myself down from 
this height.” 

By visible and painful effort she at last grew calm enough 
to say firmly, 

Mr. Arnold, I do pity you. Even at this moment I 
will try to do you justice. My heart seems broken, and yet 


A FATAL ERROR . 


515 


I fear you will suffer more than I. My own womanhood 
would make your words the sufficient cause for our final 
separation, and had I not a friend in the world we could 
never meet again. But I have a friend, a brother to whom 
I owe more than life, and whom I love better than life. He 
would have made me rich if I would have let him, but I loved 
you too well. Not for my hope of heaven would I make 
him blush for me. I would have married you and lived in 
a single room in a tenement. I would have supported you 
with my own hands. The weaknesses for which you were 
not to blame drew my heart toward you, but you have shown 
a defect in your character to-night which creates an impass- 
able gulf between us. In view of the wrong done you by 
others I forgive you — I shall pray God to forgive you — but 
we have fatally misunderstood each other. If you have any 
manhood at all, if you have the ordinary instincts of a gen- 
tleman, you will respect the commands of an orphan girl, and 
leave me, never to approach me again. 

Speechless, almost paralyzed in his despair, he tottered to 
the steps and disappeared. 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Si6 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE. 

S Mrs. Wheaton crossed the hallway from a brief call 



n on a neighbor, Vinton Arnold passed her. She noted 
by the light of the lamp in her hand that his pallor was 
ghostlike, and she asked quickly, 

“ Vere is Miss Jocelyn V* 

He paid no more heed to her than if he were a shadow of 
a man, and went by her with wavering, uncertain steps, with- 
out a word. In sudden alarm she hastened to the roof, and 
found Mildred kneeling by her chair, weeping and almost 
speechless from grief. She took the girl in her arms, and 
said excitedly, “ Vat did he say to you ?” 

“ Oh,’* sobbed Mildred, “ my heart is broken at last. I 
feel as mamma did when she said her heart was bleeding 
away. Mrs. Wheaton, I shall stay with you now as long as 
I live, and it seems as if it wouldn’t be very long. Never 
speak of him again — never speak of it to a living soul. He 
asked that which would banish you and Roger — dear, brave, 
patient Roger — from my side forever, and I will never see 
his face again. Oh, oh, I wish I could die !” 

“ I’m a plain voman,” Mrs. Wheaton said grimly, “ but I 
took the measure of ’im soon as I clapped my heyes on ’im ; 
but Millie, me darlin’, you couldn’t be so cruel as to break 
hour ’earts by dying for sich a man. You vould make the 
vorld black for us hall, yer know. Come, dear, come vith 
me. I’ll take care hof yer. I’m not fine like 'im that’s 


LIGHT A T EVENTIDE. 


517 

gone, thank the Lord, but I'll never ax ye to do haught that 
Mr. Ventvorth vouldn’t bless/’ and she halt supported the 
exhausted, trembling girl to her room, and there was ten- 
der and tireless in her ministrations. In the early dawn, 
when at last Mildred slept for an hour or two, she wrote, in a 
half -legible scrawl, to Roger, “Come back. Millie wants 
you. ’ ’ 

His presence in response was prompt indeed. On the 
second morning after the events described, Mildred sat in her 
chair leaning back with closed eyes. Mrs. Wheaton was 
away at work, and her eldest daughter was watching the little 
brood of children on the sidewalk. A decided knock at the 
door caused the young girl to start up with apprehension. 
She was so nervously prostrated that she trembled like a 
leaf. At last she summoned courage and opened the door 
slightly, and when she saw Roger’s sunburnt, honest face she 
welcomed him as if he were a brother indeed. 

He placed her gently in her chair again, and said, with a 
keen look into her eyes, “ How is this, Millie ? I left you 
happy and even blooming, and now you appear more pale 
and broken than ever before. You look as if you had been 
seriously ill. Oh, Millie, that couldn’t be, and you not let 
me know/’ and he clasped her hand tightly as he spoke. 

She buried her burning face on his shoulder, and said, in 
a low, constrained tone, “ Roger, I’ve told Mr. Arnold this 
much about you — I said I’d die ten thousand deaths rather 
than cause you to blush for me.” 

He started as if he had been shot. “ Great God !” he 
exclaimed, “ and did he ask you aught that would make 
you blush ?” 

Bitter tears were Mildred’s only answer. 

The young man’s passion for a few moments was terrible, 
but Mildred’s pallid face soon calmed him. “ You could 
not harm him,” she said sadly. “ What is one blow more 


5iS 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


to a man who is in torture ? I pity him from the depths of 
my soul, and you must promise me to let him alone. Never 
for a moment did I forget that you were my brother. 

In strong revulsion of feeling he bent one knee at her side 
and pleaded, “ Oh, Millie, give me the right to protect you. 
I’ll wait for you till I’m gray. I’ll take what love you can 
give me. I’ll be devotion itself.” 

‘ ' Don’ t, Roger, ’ ’ she said wearily. ‘ ‘ I love you too well 
to listen. Such words only wound me. Oh, Roger, be 
patient with me. You don’t understand, you never will un. 
derstand. I do give you the right to protect me ; but don’ t 
talk that way again. I just long for rest and peace. Roger, 
my friend, my brother,” she said, lifting her eyes appealingly 
to his, and giving him both of her hands, ‘ 4 don’ t you see ? 
I can give you everything in this way, but in the way you 
speak of — nothing. My heart is as dead as poor Belle’s.” 

44 Your wish shall be my law,” he said gently. 

44 And you’ll not harm Mr. Arnold ?” 

44 Not if it will hurt you.” 

4 4 I never wish to see or hear from him again, and you’ 11 
never have cause to fear any one else. ’ ’ 

44 Millie,” he said sadly, 44 it is for you I fear most. You 
.ook so sad, pale, and broken-hearted. There isn't a sacri- 
fice I wouldn’t make for you. Millie, you won’t let this 
thing crush you ? It would destroy me if you did. We will 
resume our old quiet life, and you shall have rest of body 
and soul ;” and he kept his word so well that, before many 
months passed, her mind regained sufficient tone and 
strength to enable her to engage in the simple duties of life 
with something like zest He talked to her about many of 
his studies, he searched the stores for the books which he 
thought would be to her taste, and took her to see every 
beautiful work of art on exhibition. In spite of her poverty, 
he daily made her life richer and fuller of all that he knew 


LIGHT A T EVENTIDE . 


5*9 


Vc be congenial to her nature. While she gained in serenity 
and in capability for quiet enjoyment, he was positively 
happy, for he believed that before many years passed she 
would be ready to spend the rest of life at his side. He 
meantime was pursuing his studies with a vigor and success 
that inspired his friends with the most sanguine hopes. 

Vinton Arnold, on that terrible night when his false dream 
of life was shattered, went through the streets as oppressed 
with shame and despair as if he were a lost spirit. As he 
was slowly and weakly climbing the stairs his father called 
him to the sitting-room, where he and his wife were in con- 
sultation, feeling that matters must be brought to some kind 
of a settlement, Mrs. Arnold urging extreme measures, and 
her husband bent on some kind of compromise. As his 
son entered, the old gentleman started up, exclaiming, 

‘ ‘ Good God, my boy, what is the matter ?’ * 

“ He’s going to have one of his bad turns, ” said his 
mother, rising hastily. 

“ Hush, both of you,” he commanded sternly, and he sat 
down near the door. Fixing a look of concentrated hatred 
on his mother, he said slowly, 4 4 Madam, you are not will- 
ing that I should marry Mildred Jocelyn.” 

4 4 And with very good reason, ’ ' she replied, a little con- 
fused by his manner. 

44 Well, let it rejoice such heart as you have — I shall never 
marry her.” 

4 4 What do you mean ?” 

44 I mean never to speak to you again after this brief inter- 
view. I am a lost man — lost beyond hope, and you are the 
cause. If you had had a mother’s heart my father would not 
have been so obdurate. Since you would not let me marry 
her, I was tempted by my love and the horrible life I lead in 
this house to offer her a relation which would have been mar- 
riage to me, but from which her proud, pure spirit recoiled, as 


$20 


Without a home. 


I recoil from you, and I shall never see her face again in this 
world or in any world. Your work is finished. You need 
not scheme or threaten any more. While she is as good as 
an angel of heaven, she is as proud as you are, and you have 
murdered my hope — my soul. Father, I have but one re- 
quest to make to you. Give me money enough to live any- 
where except under this roof. No, no more words to-night, 
unless you would have me die in your presence with curses 
on my lips. I have reached the utmost limit ;” and he 
abruptly left the room. 

Mrs. Arnold took refuge in hysterics, and her husband 
rang violently for her maid, and then locked himself up in 
his library, where he walked the floor ior many an hour. 
The next morning he tried to make overtures to his son, but 
he found the young man deaf and stony in his despair. 
“ It’s too late,” was all that he would say. 

“ Oh, let him alone,” protested his wife irritably, as hex 
husband came down looking sorely troubled ; ‘ ‘ Vinton will 
indulge in high tragedy for a few months, and then settle 
down to sensible life,” and in the hope of this solution the 
old merchant went gloomily to his business. 

That day Vinton Arnold left his home, and it was years 
before he returned. 

Two years or more passed away in quiet, toilsome days for 
Mildred. She had gained serenity, and apparently had ac- 
cepted her lot without repining. Indeed, thanks to Roger’s 
unfaltering devotion, it was not a monotonous or a sad one. 
He let her heart rest, hoping, trusting that some day it 
would wake from its sleep. In compliance with her wish 
he was in semblance a brother, and his attentions were so 
quiet and frank, his manner toward her so restful, that even 
she half believed at times that his regard for her was passing 
into the quiet and equable glow of fraternal love. Such 
coveted illusions could not be long maintained, however, for 


LIGHT A T EVENTIDE. 


S*« 

occasionally when he was off his guard she would find him 
looking at her in a way that revealed how much he repressed. 
She shed many bitter tears over what she termed his “ ob- 
stinate love,” but an almost morbid conviction had gained 
possession of her mind that unless she could return his 
affection in kind and degree she ought not to marry him. 

At last she began to grow a little restless under her rather 
aimless life, and one day she said to her pastor, Mr. Went- 
worth, “ I want a career — isn’t that what you call it? I’m 
tired of being a sewing- woman, and soon I shall be a 
wrinkled spinster. Isn’t there something retired and quiet 
which a girl with no more brains and knowledge than I have 
can do ?” 

“Yes,” he said gravely ; “ make a home for Roger.” 

She shook her head. “ That is the only thing I can’t do 
for him,” she replied very sadly. “ God only knows how 
truly I love him. I could give him my life, but not the 
heart of a wife. I have lost everything except truth to my 
womanly nature. I must keep that. Moreover, I’m too 
good a friend of Roger’s to marry him. He deserves the 
strong first love of a noble woman, and it will come to him 
some day. Do you think I could stand before you and 
God’s altar and promise what is impossible? No, Mr. 
Wentworth, Roger has a strength and force of character 
which will carry him past all this, and when once he sees I 
have found a calling to which I can devote all my energies, 
he will gradually become reconciled to the truth, and finally 
accept a richer happiness than I could ever bring him. 

“ You are an odd girl, Mildred, but perhaps you are 
right I've learned to have great faith in you. Well, I 
know of a career which possibly may suit you. It would 
open an almost limitless field of usefulness,” and he told her 
of the Training School for Nurses in connection with Belle- 
vue Hospital. 


522 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


The proposition took Mildred’s fancy greatly, and it was 
arranged that they should visit the institution on the follow- 
ing afternoon. Roger sighed when he heard of the project, 
but only remarked patiently, ‘ ‘ Anything you wish, Millie. ’ ’ 

“ Dear old fellow,” she thought ; ‘‘he doesn’t know I’m 
thinking of him more than myself. ’ * 

Mildred made her friend Clara Wilson and her brother and 
sister a long visit the following summer, and in the fall 
entered on her duties, her zest greatly increased by the pros- 
pect of being able before very long to earn enough to give 
Fred and Minnie a good education. The first year of her 
training passed uneventfully away, she bringing to her tasks 
genuine sympathy for suffering, and unusual aptness and 
ability. Her own sorrowful experience made her tender 
toward the unfortunate ones for whom she cared, and her 
words and manner brought balm and healing to many sad 
hearts that were far beyond the skill of the hospital surgeons. 

During the first half of the second year, in accordance with 
the custom of the School, she responded to calls from 
wealthy families wherein there were cases of such serious 
illness as to require the services of a trained nurse, and in 
each instance she so won the confidence of the attending phy- 
sician and the affection of the family as to make them per- 
sonal friends. Her beautiful face often attracted to her not 
a little attention, but she was found to be as unapproachable 
as a Sister of Charity. Roger patiently waited, and filled the 
long months with unremitting toil. 

One evening toward the latter part of the first six months 
of her outside work, Mildred returned from nursing a patient 
back to health. She found the lady in charge of the institu- 
tion in much tribulation. ‘‘ Here is Mrs. Sheppard, from 
one of the most influential families on Fifth Avenue, offering 
anything for a nurse. Her brother is dying with consump- 
tion, she says. He has a valet in attendance, but the phy- 


LIGHT AT E VENTIDE. 


5*3 

sician in charge says he needs a trained nurse, for he wants 
constant watching. He is liable to die at any moment. We 
haven’t a nurse unemployed. Do you feel too tired to go ?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mildred. “ My patient improved so 
much that for the last week I’ve almost been resting.” 

* ‘ And you think you can go ?’ ’ 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I’ll tell Mrs. Sheppard then to send for you in a couple 
of hours. That will give you time to get ready.” 

Two hours later Mildred was driven rapidly by a coachman 
in livery to a mansion on Fifth Avenue, and she was speedily 
ushered into the room where the patient lay. He was sleep- 
ing at the time, with curtains drawn and his face turned away. 
Mildred only glanced at him sufficiently to see that he was 
very much emaciated. A middle-aged lady who introduced 
herself as Mrs. Sheppard received her, saying, “ I’m so glad 
you are here, for I am overcome with fatigue. Last night 
he was very restless and ill, and would have no one near him 
except myself. His valet is in that room just across the hall, 
and will come at the slightest summons. Now while my 
brother is sleeping I will rest at once. My room is here, 
opening into this. Call me if there is need, and don’t mind 
if he talks strangely. Your room is there, just beyond this 
one, ’ and with a few directions, given with the air of extreme 
weariness, she passed to her own apartment, and was soon 
sleeping soundly. 

Mildred sat down in the dim room where the light fell 
upon her pure, sweet profile, which was made a little more 
distinct by the flickering of the cannel-coal fire, and began 
one of the quiet watches to which she was becoming so ac- 
customed. Her thoughts were very painful at first, for they 
seemed strangely inclined to dwell on Vinton Arnold. From 
the time they parted she had heard nothing of him, and since 
the brief explanation that she had been compelled to give to 


5 2 4 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Roger, his name had not passed her lips. He had been 
worse than dead to her, and she wondered if he were dead. 
She had never cherished any vindictive feelipgs toward him, 
and even now her eyes filled with tears of commiseration for 
his wronged and wretched life. Then by a conscious effort 
she turned her thoughts to the friend who had never failed 
her. “ Dear Roger,” she murmured, “ he didn’t appear 
well the last time I saw him. He is beginning to look worn 
and thin. I know he is studying too hard. Oh, I wish my 
heart were not so perverse, for he needs some one to take 
care of him. He can’ t change ; he doesn’ t get over it as I 
hoped he would,” and her eyes, bent on the fire, grew 
dreamy and wistful. 

Unknown to herself, she was watched by one who scarcely 
dared to breathe lest what seemed a vision should vanish. 
The dying man was Vinton Arnold. His married sister, 
overcome by weariness and the stupor of sleep, had in- 
advertently forgotten to mention his name, and Mildred was 
under the impression that the name of her patient was Shep- 
pard. She had never been within the Arnold mansion, nor 
was she specially familiar with its exterior. Entering it 
hastily on a stormy night, she had not received the faintest 
suggestion ti._.t it was the home to which she and her mother 
had once dreamed she might be welcomed. 

When at last Arnold had awakened, he saw dimly, sitting 
by the fire, an unfamiliar form, which nevertheless suggested 
the one never absent from his thoughts. Noiselessly he 
pushed the lace curtain aside, and to his unspeakable wonder 
his eyes seemed to rest on Mildred Jocelyn. “ She is dead,” 
he first thought, “ and it is her spirit. Or can it be that my 
reason is leaving me utterly, and the visions of my tortured 
mind are becoming more real than material things? Oh, 
see,” he murmured, “ there are tears in her eyes. I could 
almost imagine that a good angel had taken her guise and 


LIGHT AT E VENTIDE. 


5*3 


*as weeping over one so lost and wrecked as I am. Now 
her lips move — she is speaking softly to herself. Great God l 
can it be real ? Or is it that my end is near, and long- 
delayed mercy gives me this sweet vision before I die ?” 

His sombre and haft-superstitious conjectures were almost 
dispelled by a little characteristic act on Mildred’s part — an 
act that contained a suggestion of hope for Roger. In 
awakening the stronger traits of manhood in the latter she 
had also evoked an appreciation of beauty and a growing love 
for it. Mildred was human enough not to regret that this 
developing sense should find its fullest gratification in herself. 
Though so determined to become a wrinkled spinster, she 
found a secret and increasing pleasure in the admiring glances 
that dwelt upon her face and dainty figure, and this fact 
might have contained for him, had he known it, a pleasing 
hint. It must be confessed that she no longer wished to go into 
his presence without adding a little grace to her usually plain 
attire ; and now that she was thinking so deeply of him she in- 
voluntarily raised her hand to adjust her coquettish nurse’s cap, 
which by some feminine magic all her own she ever contrived 
to make a becoming head-dress rather than a badge of office. 

Even to Vinton Arnold’s perturbed and disordered mind 
the act was so essentially feminine and natural, so remote 
from ghostly weirdness, that he raised himself on his elbow 
and exclaimed, “ Millie, Millie Jocelyn !” 

“ Ah !” cried Mildred, starting from her chair and looking 
fearfully toward the half-closed door of Mrs. Sheppard’s 
room. In her turn her heart beat quickly, with the sudden 
superstitious fear which the strongest ot us cannot control 
when we seem close to the boundaries of the unseen world. 
“ It was his voice,” she murmured. 

“ Millie, oh, Millie, are you real, or is it a dream?” 

She took two or three steps toward the bed, stopped, and 
covered her face with her hand*. 


52(5 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


“ Oh, speak !” he cried in agony. “I do not know 
whether I am dreaming or awake, or whether I now see as i) 
before me the one ever in my thoughts. You hide your face 
from me,” he groaned, sinking back despairingly. “You 
have come for a brief moment to show me that I can never 
look upon your face again.” 

Mildred thought swiftly. Her first impulse was to depart 
at once, and then her womanly pity and sense of duty gained 
the mastery. Vinton Arnold was now a dying man, and she 
but a trained nurse. Perhaps God’ s hand was in their strange 
and unexpected meeting, and it was His will that the threads 
of two lives that had been bound so closely should not be 
severed in fatal evil. Should she thwart His mercy ? 

“Mr. Arnold,” she said, in an agitated voice, “ this is a 
strange and undreamt-of meeting. Let me quiet your mind, 
however, by telling you how simple and matter-of-fact are 
the causes which led to it. I am now a professional nurse 
from the Training School connected with Bellevue Hospital, 
and your sister, having sent to the School for assistance, ob* 
tained my services as she might those of any of my associates. 
In view — perhaps — it would be best for one of them to take 
my place. ’ ' 

He was strongly moved, and listened panting and trembling 
in his weakness. “ Millie,” at last he faltered, “ is there 
any God at all ? Is there any kind or merciful spirit in 
nature ? If so, you have been sent to me, for I am dying of 
remorse. Since you bade me leave you I have suffered tor- 
tures, day and night, that I cannot describe. I have often 
been at the point of taking my own life, but something held 
me back. Can it be that it was for this hour ? Mildred, 
I am dying. The end of a most unhappy life is very near. 
Is there no mercy in your faith — no mercy in your strong, 
pure womanly heart ?' * 

“Vinton,” she said gently, “I believe you are right 


LIGHT AT £ VENTIDE. 


5*7 


God has sent me to you. I will not leave you until it 
is best/’ 

“Millie, Millie,” he pleaded, “forgive me. I cannot 
Irelieve in God’s forgiveness until you forgive me.” 

“ I forgave you from the first, Vinton, because I knew 
there was no cold-blooded evil in your mind, and I have 
long felt that you were more sinned against than sinning. If 
I stay I must impose one condition — there must be no words 
concerning the past. That is gone forever. ” 

“I know it, Mildred. I killed your love with my own 
hand, but the blow was more fatal to me than to you.” 

‘ ‘ Can you not rally and live ?' ’ she asked tearfully. 

“ No,” he said, with a deep breath. “ Moreover, I have 
no wish to live. The dark shadow of my life will soon fall 
on y^u no more, but the hope that I may breathe my last 
with you near brings a deep content and peace. Does any 
one yet suspect who you are ?” 

“ No. I fear Mrs. Arnold will not think it best.” 

“ I have never spoken to Mrs. Arnold since that awful 
night, and if she interferes now I will curse her with my last 
breath. This is my one hope — my one gleam of light in 
the life she has cursed — ” 

“ Hush, oh hush ! Unless my presence brings quietness 
I cannot stay,” for at the name of his mother he became 
dangerously agitated. “ I will tell Mrs. Sheppard in the 
morning, and I think she will arrange it so that I can do all 
in my power for you. 

“ No,” he replied, after a little thought, “ I will tell her. 
She is unlike my mother and other sisters, and has a good 
heart She has taken entire charge of me, but I was in such 
a hell of suffering at the thought of dying without one word 
from you that I was almost a maniac. I will be quiet now. 
Leave all to me ; I can make her understand.” 

When Mrs. Sheppard entered, as the late dawn began to 


5»8 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


mingle with the gaslight, she found her brother sleeping 
quietly, his hand clasping Mildred’s. To her slight expres- 
sion of surprise the young girl returned a clear, steadfast look, 
and said calmly, ‘ ' When your brother awakes he has some 
explanations to make. I am Mildred Jocelyn.” 

The lady sank into a chair and looked at her earnestly. 
44 I have long wished to see you,” she murmured. “Vin- 
ton has told me everything. I was so overcome with sleep 
and fatigue last night that I neither told you his name nor 
asked yours. Did you not suspect where you were ?’ ’ 

* ‘ Not until he awoke and recognized me. ’ ’ 

4 4 Was he greatly agitated ?’ ’ 

44 Yes, at first. It was so unexpected that he thought me 
a mere illusion of his own mind. ’ ’ 

44 Miss Jocelyn, I believe God sent you to him.” 

44 So he thinks.” 

44 You won’t leave him till — till — It can’t be long.” 

4 4 That depends upon you, Mrs. Sheppard. I am very, 
very sorry for him,” and tears came into her eyes. 

Low as was the murmur of their voices, Arnold awoke and 
glanced with troubled eyes from one to the other before it all 
came back to him ; but his sister brought quiet and r^°t bv 
atying gently, as she kissed him, 

44 Vinton, Miss locelyn shall not leave you/ 


•• GOOD ANGEL OF GOD.** 


529 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

“GOOD ANGEL OF GOD.” 

HE young nurse soon became known through the 



J_ house simply as Miss Mildred. With the exception 
of Mrs. Sheppard, the valet, and the physician, no one en- 
tered the sick-room except Mr. Arnold, and the old man 
often lingered and hovered around like a remorseful ghost. 
He had grown somewhat feeble, and no longer went to his 
business. His son had tolerated his presence since he had 
come home to die, but had little to say to him, for the bit- 
terness of his heart extended to the one who had yielded to 
his mother’s hardness and inveterate worldliness. In the 
secrecy of his heart the old merchant admitted that he had 
been guilty of a fatal error, and the consequences had been 
so terrible to his son that he had daily grown more con- 
science-smitten ; but his wife had gained such an ascendency 
over him in all social and domestic questions that beyond 
occasional protests he had let matters drift until Vinton re- 
turned from his long exile in Europe. The hope that his 
son would get over what his wife called ‘ ‘ an absurd youth- 
ful folly” was now rudely dispelled, and in bitterness he 
reproached himself that he had not adopted a different course. 

From the way in which he came in and looked at his son 
when he was sleeping, it was soon revealed to Mildred how 
he felt, and she pitied him also. 

Mrs. Sheppard was a wealthy widow, and the eldest 
daughter. She was for the present making her home under 


S3* 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


the paternal roof. Unlike her mother, she had quick, strong 
sympathies, which sorrows of her own had deepened. She 
had assumed the care of her brother, and infused into her 
ministry a tenderness which at last led the embittered heart 
to reveal itself to her. She was therefore already prepared to 
be Mildred’s sincere ally in bringing a little light into the late 
evening-tide of her brother’s clouded day. 

Most of the time she sat in her own room with the door 
ajar, leaving Vinton to the ministrations of his nurse. He 
required far less care now, for he seemed content to rest as 
one might during a respite from torture. His eyes would 
follow Mildred with a pathetic longing when he was awake, 
and when she took his hand and told him to sleep he would 
obey like a child. He seemed better because so quiet, but 
he grew weaker daily. All knew, and none better than him- 
self, that life was slowly ebbing. His father came in more 
frequently than ever, for his son showed no restlessness at his 
presence now. At Mildred’s request Vinton even began to 
greet him with something like a welcome, and the young girl 
did all in her power to make the old gentleman feel at home ; 
sometimes she would place a large easy-chair by the fire and 
ask him to sit with them. He was glad to comply, and often 
looked wonderingly and earnestly at the fair young nurse that 
was working such a transformation in the patient. He once 
or twice tried to become better acquainted with her. but ever 
found her gentle, deferential, and very reserved. 

Twice Mildred asked Vinton to let her send for Mr. Went- 
worth, but he shook his head and said that she alone could 
do him any good. “ Read the Bible to me when you feel 
like it. I’ 11 listen to you, but my best hope is to sleep so 
quietly that I shall have no dreams. If that cannot be, I’ll 
remember that you forgave m^. ’ ' 

“ Such words make me very sad,” she replied, on the lat- 
ter occasion, tears rushing into her eyes. 


GOOD ANGEL OF GOD . 


S3 1 


"lam not worthy that you should care so much,” he 
said. “ What am I but a flickering rush-light which your 
hand is shielding that it may bum out quietly ?” 

* ‘ Vinton, you are wrong. The life which God has given 
you cannot cease. I am not wise and learned, and I have 
an almost unconquerable diffidence in speaking on these sub- 
jects, except to children and the poor and ignorant. But 
since you won't see any one else, I must speak. You say 
God sent me to you, and I accept your belief, but He did 
not send me to you merely to relieve physical pain and men- 
tal disquiet. If a man is stumbling toward an abyss of dark- 
ness, is it any great kindness to hold a lamp so that his last 
steps may be easier ? There is for each one of us a vital 
truth and a sacred duty, and in shutting your eyes to these 
and living in the present hour, you show — pardon an honest 
friend for saying it — you show a more fatal weakness than 
you have yet manifested.” 

“You are mistaken, Mildred,” he said bitterly. “As 
far as I am concerned, what truth is there for me to contem- 
plate except a wasted, unhappy life, wrecked and shamed be- 
yond remedy, beyond hope. I long ago lost what trace of 
manhood I once had. Never dream that because you have for- 
given me I shall forgive myself. No, no,” he said, with a 
dark vindictiveness in his eyes, “ there are three that I shall 
never forgive, and I am one of them. As for duty, the word is 
torment. What can I do — I who can scarcely raise my hand ? 
My day is over, my chance has gone by forever. Don’t in- 
terrupt me. I know you would speak of the consolations of 
religion, but I’d rather goto the devil himself— if there is one 
— than to such a God as my mother worships ; and she 
has always been a very religious woman. The whole thing 
long since became a farce to me at our church. It was 
just as much a part of the fashionable world that blighted me 
as the rest of society’s mummeries. You never went there 


S3 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


after you had real trouble to contend with. It was the last 
place that you would think of going to for comfort or help. 
The thought of you alone has kept me from utter unbelief, 
and I would be glad to believe that there is some kindl) 
power in existence that watches over such beings as you are, 
and that can reward your noble life ; but as far as I am com 
cerned it’ s all a mystery and a weariness. You are near— 
you are merciful and kind. This is all the heaven I expect. 
It is far more than I deserve. Let me rest, Mildred. It 
will be but for a few more days. Then when you close my 
eyes, may I sleep forever, ’ ’ and he leaned back faint and ex- 
hausted. He would not let her interrupt him, for he seemed 
bent on settling the question as far as he was concerned, and 
dismissing it finally. 

She listened with fast-falling tears, and answered sighingly, 
“ Oh, I do wish you would see Mr. Wentworth. You are 
so wrong — so fatally mistaken. ’ ’ 

4 * No, ’ ’ he said firmly, 4 ‘ I will see no one but you. ' ’ 

* ‘ Oh, what shall I say to you ?’ ’ 

“ Do not grieve so about me. You cannot change any- 
thing. You cannot give me your strong, grand nature any 
more than you can your beautiful life and perfect health. I 
could become a Catholic and worship St. Mildred,” he added 
with a smile, trying to banish her tears. ‘ 4 The only duty 
that I am capable of is to try to make as little trouble as pos^ 
sible, and to cease making it altogether soon. Go and rest, 
and I will too, for I’m very tired.” 

“ No,” she said resolutely. “ My mission to you must 
not end so weakly, so uselessly. Will you do me a favor ?” 

“I?” 

“Yes; listen quietly and honestly ;” and she read the 
first verses of the nineteenth chapter of St. John, ending with 
the words, 4 4 Behold the man. ’ ’ 

Vinton, ’ ’ she said eagerly, 4 4 the truth to which I referred 


" GOOD ANGEL OF GOD.” 


533 


was embodied truth, and your first sacred duty is to look to 
Him and live. To the last conscious moment of life this 
will remain your first and most sacred duty, and were you the 
strongest man in this city you could not do more. It's not 
a question of religions at all, or of what other people are or 
believe. The words I have read have brought you face to 
face with this Divine Man, who came to seek and save that 
which was lost. Never did a despairing human soul cry out 
to Him in vain. He is as real as I am. His tender pity is 
infinitely beyond mine. Far better and wiser would it be for 
you to turn from me than from Him. Oh, merciful Christ, 
how the world wrongs Thee !" and she buried her face in 
her hands and sobbed bitterly. 

“ Millie, please don’t," he entreated. “ I can’t endure 
to see you so grieved." 

“ Forgive me — I am forgetting myself sadly ; but how can 
I see you so hopeless, so despairing, when there is no more 
need of it than of your refusing what I try to do for your 
comfort ? There, rest now, but think of what I’ ve said. I 
may have done wrong to tire you so, but to minister to the 
body only, when the soul, the man within you, is in such 
infinite need seems but a mockery. If you continue to 
wrong Him who should be the one great hope of every 
human heart, you will sadden all my days. My mission will 
be but a poor one indeed." 

He was very much exhausted, but he said gently, 44 I will 
think of it, and may the One you serve so faithfully bless you 
for your divine pity. What you have said seems to make 
everything different : you appear to have something real and 
definite in your mind. Give me your hand and I will rest ; 
then, my good angel, teach me your faith. 

This Mildred did almost wholly from God’s own word. 
At first it was hard for him to believe that there were any 
possibilities for one like him, but atjast he accepted the truth 


534 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


that God is not willing that the least should perish. ‘ ‘ The 
mystery of life is something that the wisest cannot solve, ’ 9 sne 
said to him, “ but the best hopes of the world have ever 
centred about this Divine Friend. Burdened hearts have 
gone to Him in every age and found rest. Oh, how often 
He has comforted me when mine seemed breaking ! In re- 
sponse to a simple trust He gives a hope, a life which I do 
not think can be found elsewhere, and in the limitless future 
that which was all wrong here may be made right ana 
perfect ' ' 

“ So this is your revenge, Millie. You come and bring 
me this great hope." 

“No, God sent me." 

Mildred’s mission to the sad-hearted Mrs. Sheppard was 
almost as sacred and useful as to her brother, and they had 
many long talks which possessed all the deep interest which 
is imparted by experiences that leave a lasting impress on 
memory. 

Every day increased the bitter regret that short-sighted 
worldliness had blighted one life and kept from others one 
who had such rare powers of creating all that constitutes a 
home. 

To Roger Mildred had written almost daily, telling him 
everything. Her letters were so frank and sincere that they 
dispelled the uneasiness which first took possession of his 
mind, and they gradually disarmed him of his hostility to the 
dying man. There is a point in noble souls beyond which 
enmity falters and fails, and he felt that Mildred’s course 
toward Arnold was like the mercy of God. He reverenced 
the girl who like an angel of mercy was bringing hope to a 
despairing soul. 

“ Laura," said old Mr. Arnold to Mrs. Sheppard one 
evening as she was sitting with him in his library, “ this 
young nurse is a continual surprise to me." 


" GOOD ANGEL OF GOD. 


535 


" What do you mean, papa ?” 

“ Well, she impresses me strangely. She has come to us 
as a professional nurse, and yet I have never seen a more per- 
fect gentlewoman. There is a subtle grace and refinement 
about her which is indescribable. No wonder Vinton has 
been made better by her care. I wouldn’ t mind being sick 
myself if I could have her about me. That girl has a his- 
tory. How comes she in such a position ?” 

“ I think her position a very exalted one,” said his 
daughter warmly. “Think what an infinite blessing and 
comfort she has been in our household.” 

“ True, true enough ; but I didn’t expect any such person 
to be sent to us.” 

“Iam perfectly ready to admit that this young girl is an 
unusual character, and have no doubt that she has had a 
history that would account for her influence. But you are 
in error if you think that these trained nurses are recruited 
from the ranks of commonplace women. Many of them 
come from as good families as ours, and have all the instincts 
of a true lady. They have a noble calling, and I envy them. " 

“ Well, you know more about it than I do, but I think 
this Miss Mildred a rare type of woman. It’s not her beau- 
tiful face, for she has a charm, a winsomeness that is hard to 
define or account for. She makes me think of some subtle 
perfume that is even sweeter than the flower from which it is 
distilled. Would to God Vinton had met such a girl at 
first ! How different it all might have been !” 

Mrs. Sheppard left the room so hastily as to excite her 
father’s surprise. 

One day Vinton said to Mildred, “ How can I be truly 
forgiven unless I forgive ? I now see that I have wronged 
God’s love even more than my mother has wronged me, and 
in my deep gratitude from the consciousness of God’s for- 
giveness I would like to forgive her and be reconciled before 


53 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


I die. To my brother I will send a brief message can't 
see him again, for the ordeal would be too painful. As for 
my father, I have long ceased to cherish enmity against him. 
He, like myself, is, in a certain sense, a victim of our 
family pride." 

“ Vinton," Mildred replied, “ I cannot tell you how glad 
I am to hear you speak so. I have been waiting and hoping 
for this, for it is proof that your feeling is not mere emotion 
and sentiment. You now propose to do something that is 
more than manly — it is divine. God’s greatest, dearest, most 
godlike prerogative is to forgive, and man’s noblest act is to 
forgive a great wrong. Vinton, you have now won my re- 
spect. ’ ’ 

She never forgot his answering glance. ‘ ‘ Millie, ' ' he said 
softly, “ I can die happy now. I never expected more than 
your pity. ’ ' 

‘ * If you will do this, your memory will become sweet and 
ennobled in my heart. Your action will show me how 
grandly and swiftly God can develop one who has been 
wronged by evil. ’ ’ 

“ God bless you, my good angel. Ask my sister to send 
for my father and mother at once. I feel a little stronger 
this evening, and yet I think the beginning of my new life is 
very near." 

Mildred went into Mrs. Sheppard’s room and told her of 
Vinton’s purpose. She looked at the young girl for a 
moment with eyes blinded by tears, and then clasped her in 
a close, passionate embrace which was more eloquent than 
any words. “ Oh, Mildred," she said, with a low sob, “ if 
you only could have been my sister !" Then she hastened 
to carry out her brother’ s wishes. 

The fire burned brightly in the grate, the softened lights 
diffused a mild radiance through the room, and the old im- 
pression of gloom was utterly absent when Vinton’ s parents 


GOOD ANGEL OF GOD. 


537 


f iltered. Neither Mrs. Arnold nor her husband was quite 
able to hide the surprise nnd embarrassment felt at the un- 
expected summons, but Mr. Arnold went promptly to the 
bedside, and, taking his son’s hand, said huskily, “ I’ll come 
any time you wish, my dear boy, be it night or day.” 

Vinton gave as warm a pressure in answer as his feebleness 
permitted, and then he said gravely, “ I wish you and 
mother to sit here close to me, for I must speak low, and my 
words must be brief. I have but a little fragment of life left 
to me, and must hasten to perform the few duties yet within 
my power. ' ’ 

“ Had not this young woman better retire?” suggested 
Mrs. Arnold, glancing coldly at Mildred, who stood in the 
background, Mrs. Sheppard detaining her by a strong, warm 
clasp of her hand. 

“No,” said Vinton decisively, ‘ ‘ she must remain. Were 
it not for the influence of this Christian — not religious, but 
Christian — girl, you would never have seen my face again, 
with my consent. In showing me how God forgives the sin- 
ful, she has taught me how to forgive. Mother, I never ex- 
pected to forgive you, but I do from my heart. I am far be- 
yond the world and all worldly considerations, in the clear 
light of the endless life to which we are all hastening, I see 
as never before how small, petty, and unworthy are those un- 
natural principles which blight human life at fashion’s bidding. 
Mother, I wish to do you justice. You tried to care for me 
in my childhood and youth. You spared yourself no expense, 
no trouble, but you could not seem to understand that what 
I needed was sympathy and love — that my heart was always 
repressed and unhappy. The human soul, however weak, 
is not like an exotic plant. It should be tended by a hand 
that is as gentle as it is firm and careful. I found one who 
combined gentleness with strength ; stem, lofty principle with 
the most beautiful and delicate womanhood ; and you know 


53* 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


how I lost her. Could I have followed the instincts of my 
heart, my fate would have been widely different But that 
is now all past You did not mean to wrong me so terribly. 
It was only because your own life was all wrong that you 
wronged me. Your pride and prejudice prevented you from 
knowing the truth concerning the girl I loved. Mother, I 
am dying, and my last earnest counsel to you and father is 
that you will obey the words of the loftiest and greatest, ‘ Learn 
of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find 
rest unto your souls.’ If you cannot do this, your lives will 
be a more wretched failure than mine has been. Bury your 
worldly pride in my grave, and learn to be gentle and 
womanly, and may God forgive you as truly as I do.” 

As he spoke slowly and feebly, the cold, proud woman 
began to tremble and weep, and when his words ceased she 
sank on her knees at his bedside and sobbed, “ Oh, what 
have I done ? Must I bear the remorse of having murdered 
my own child ?” 

“ No, mother, you were blinded as I was. You will be 
forgiven as I have been. In the better home of heaven we’ 11 
find the secret of our true relationship which we missed 
here. Good-by now. I must hasten, for I am very weak. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Arnold rose, put her arms around her son and kissed 
him, and her daughter supported her from the room, Vin- 
ton’s eyes following her sorrowfully until she disappeared. 
Then he said, ‘ ‘ Dear old father, come and sit close beside 
me.” 

He came, and bowed his head upon his son’s hand. 

4 4 Millie, ’ ' he called feebly to the young girl who stood by 
the fire with her face buried in her hands. She came at once. 
“ God bless you for those tears. They fall like dew into 
my soul. Millie, I feel as if — I don’ t know what it means 
— it seems as if I might go to my rest now. The room is 
growing dark, and I seem to see^you more in my mind thaa 


“ GOOD ANGEL OF GOD” 


539 


with my eyes. Millie, will you — can you so far forgive me 
as to lake my head upon your bosom and let me say my last 
words near your heart ?” 

“ Great God !” cried his father, starting up, “ is he dying ?” 

“ Father, please be calm. Keep my hand. Let my end 
come as I wish. Millie, Millie, won’t you ?” 

Her experienced eyes saw that his death was indeed at 
hand — that his life had but flickered up brightly once more 
before expiring. Therefore she gratified his final wish, and 
took his head upon her breast. 

* ' Rest, rest at last, ’ ’ he sighed. 

“ Father,” he said after a moment or two, look at this dear 
girl who has saved my soul from death.” The old man 
lifted his head and gazed upon the pure, sweet face at which 
he had looked so often and questioningly before. 

“ Oh, Vinton, Vinton, God forgive me ! I see it all. 
Our insane pride and prejudice kept a good angel from our 
home. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, father, this is Mildred Jocelyn. Was I wrong to 
love her ?” 

“Oh, blind, blind fool that I’ve been!” the old man 
groaned. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t grieve so, father. If you will listen to her words, 
her mission to us all will be complete. She is fatherless. 
Be kind to her after I am gone.” 

The old man rose slowly and leaned his brow on Mildred’s 
head. “ My child,” he said brokenly, “all my love for 
Vinton shall now go to you, and his portion shall be yours.” 

“ God bless you, father. Good-by now. Let me sleep,” 
and his eyes closed wearily. 

“ That’s right, my boy ; you’ll be better in the morning, ” 
and with feeble, faltering steps he left the room, murmuring, 
“ Oh that I had only known in time !” 

Mrs. Sheppard now entered and took his place. For a 


$40 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


little time Vinton seemed to sleep. Then he opened his 
eyes and looked slowly around. They kindled into loving 
recognition as they rested on his sister. “ Laura, your 
patience and mercy toward me have been rewarded/* he 
whispered. “ Say to Mansfield and my other brother and 
sisters what I told you. Be as kind to Mildred as you have 
been to me. Good-by.” 

“ Millie, Millie, good angel of God to me, farewell for a 
little while.” 

His eyes closed again, his breath came more and more 
slowly, and at last it ceased. His sister put her hand over 
his heart. His sad, thwarted life had ended on earth. 

Mildred kissed him for the first time in her ministry, and 
murmured, as she gently laid his head back upon the pillow 
“ Thank God, it has not ended as I feared.” 


HOMlL 


541 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HOME. 

W E take up the thread of our story after the lapse ol 
several months. Mildred left the Arnold family 
softened and full of regret. Even proud Mrs. Ainoia asked 
her forgiveness with many bitter tears, but beyond a few little 
significant gifts they found it impossible to make the one 
toward whom their hearts were now so tender take more than 
the regular compensation that went toward the support of the 
institution to which she belonged. Mr. Arnold and Mrs. 
Sheppard would not give her up, and often came to see her, 
and the old gentleman always made her promise that when 
he became ill she would take care of him ; and once he whis- 
pered to her, “You won’t take anything from me now, but 
in my will I can remember my debt. All my wealth cannot 
pay what I owe to you. 

“ Money has nothing to do with my relations to you,” 
she replied gently. 

“ Vinton’s portion belongs to you,” was his quiet reply. 
“ The poor boy so understood it, and I shall not break faith 
with the dead. 

“ Then his portion shall go toward relieving suffering in 
this city, ’ ’ was her answer. 

‘ ‘ You can do what you please with it, for it shall be yours. ” 
While Mildred quietly performed her duties as head-nurse 
in one of the wards during the last six months of the two 
years of her sojourn at the Training School, some important 


542 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


changes had occurred in Roger's circumstances. He had, 
more than a year before, graduated second in his class al 
college, and had given the impression that he would have 
been first had he taken the full four years’ course. His 
crotchety uncle, with whom since the reconciliation he had 
resided, had died, and after a few months his wife followed 
him, and Roger found himself a wealthy man, but not a 
happy one. Beyond giving his parents every comfort which 
they craved, and making his sister Susan quite an heiress, he 
scarcely knew what to do with the money. His uncle’s 
home was not at all to his taste, and he soon left it, purchas- 
ing a moderate-sized but substantial and elegant house in a 
part of the city that best suited his convenience. Here he 
installed Mrs. Wheaton as housekeeper, and, with the excep- 
tion of his own suite of rooms and the sleeping apartments, 
left all the rest unfurnished. After placing himself in a 
position to offer hospitalities to his country relatives, he de- 
termined that the parlors should remain empty, as a mute re- 
proach to Mildred. 

One evening, a week before she graduated, he induced her 
to go with him to see his house. “ It’s not a home,” he 
whispered; “I merely stay here.” Then, without giving 
time for reply, he ushered her into the hall, which was simply 
but very elegantly furnished. Mildred had time only to note 
two or three fine old engravings and a bronze figure, when 
Mrs. Wheaton, bustling up from the basement, overwhelmed 
her with hospitality. They first inspected her domains, and 
in neatness and comfort found them all that could be desired. 
“You see,” said the good woman, as she and Mildred were 
hidden from view in a china closet, ‘ ‘ I could get hup quite 
a grand dinner, but I hain’ t much use fur these ’ ere things, 
fur he heats less and less hevery day. I’ m troubled habout 
Mr. Roger, fur he seems kinder low hin ’is spirits and dis- 
couraged like. Most young men vould feel like lords hin ’is 


HOMR. 


S43 


shoes, but he’s a-gettin' veary and listless-like. Vun day he 
vas so down that I van ted ’im to see a doctor, but he smiled 
kinder strange and said nothin’. He’s a-gettin’ thin and 
pale. Vat vould I do hif he should get sick ?” 

Mildred turned in quick alarm and glanced at the young 
man, who stood looking at the glowing kitchen-range, as if 
his thoughts were little interested in the homely appliances 
for his material comfort His appearance confirmed Mrs. 
Wheaton’s words, for his features were thinner than they had 
been since he recovered from his illness, and there was a 
suggestion of lassitude and dejection in his manner. She 
went directly to him and said, 

* * Mrs. Wheaton tells me you are not well. ’ ’ 

He started, then threw off all depression, remarking lightly, 
“Mrs. Wheaton is fidgety. She prepares enough food for 
four men. I’ m well — have been working rather late at night* 
that’s all. ” 

‘ ‘ Why do you, Roger ?’ ’ she asked, in a voice full of solic- 
itude. 

“ If I don’t feel sleepy there is no use in wasting time. 
But come, you have seen enough of the culinary department. 
Since Mrs. Wheaton has charge of it you can know before* 
hand that everything will be the best of its kind. I think \ 
can show you something in my sitting-room that will interest 
you more.” 

Mrs. Wheaton preceded them, and Mildred took his arm 
in a way that showed that he had not been able to banish her 
anxiety on his behalf. “ Let me see your parlors, Roger/' 
she said when they again reached the hall. “ I expect to 
find them models of elegance. 

He threw open the door and revealed two bare rooms, the 
brilliantly burning gas showing frescoes of unusual beauty, 
but beyond these there was nothing to relieve their bleak 
emptiness. * ‘ I have no use for these rooms, ’ ' he remarked 


544 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


briefly, closing the door. 44 Come with me," and he led hei 
to the apartment facing the street on the second floor. The 
gas was burning dimly, but when he had placed her where 
he wished her to stand, he suddenly turned it up, and before 
her, smiling into her eyes from the wall, were three ex- 
quisitely finished oil portraits — her father and mother and 
Belle, looking as she remembered them in their best and hap- 
piest days. 

The effect upon her at first was almost overpowering. She 
sank into a chair with heart far too full for words, and looked 
until tears so blinded her eyes that she could see them no 
longer. 

“ Roger," she murmured, "it’s almost the same as if you 
had brought them back to life. Oh, Roger, God bless you — 
you have not banished papa ; you have made him look as he 
asked us to remember him, ’ ’ and her tender grief became un- 
controllable for a few moments. 

4 * Don’ t cry so, Millie, ’ ’ he said gently. ‘ * Don' t you 
see they are smiling at you ? Are the likenesses good ?' * 

“ They are life-like," she answered after a little. 44 How 
could you get them so perfect ?" 

" Belle and your mother gave me their pictures long ago, 
and you remember that I once asked you for your father's 
likeness when I was looking for him. There were some 
who could aid me if they knew how he looked. Then you 
know my eye is rather correct, and I spent a good deal of 
time with the artist Between us we reached these results, 
and it's a great happiness to me that they please you." 

Her eyes were eloquent indeed as she said, in a low tone, 
44 What a loyal friend you are !" 

He shook his head so significantly that a sudden crimson 
came into her face, and she was glad that Mrs. Wheaton 
was busy in an adjoining room. “ Come," he said lightly, 

* you are neglecting other friends and turning she sav 


HOME . 


545 


fine photographs of Mr. Wentworth, of Clara Wilson, Mrs. 
Wheaton, and her little brother and sister ; also oil portraits 
of Roger’s relatives. 

She went and stood before each one, and at last returned 
to her own kindred, and her eyes began to fill again. 

“ How rich you are in these !” she at last said. 44 I have 
nothing but little pictures/' 

“ These are yours, Millie. 44 When you are ready for 
them I shall place them on your walls myself. ’ ’ 

“ Roger,” she said a little brusquely, dashing the tears 
out of her eyes, “ don’t do or say any more kind things to- 
night, or my self-control will be all gone. ’ ’ 

‘ 4 On the contrary, I shall ask you to do me a kindness. 
Please sit down on this low chair by the fire. Then I can 
add the last and best picture to this family gallery.” 

She did so hesitatingly, and was provoked to find that her 
color would rise as he leaned his elbow on the mantel and 
looked at her intently. She could not meet his eyes, for 
there was a heart-hunger in them that seemed to touch her 
very soul. 44 Oh,” she thought, 44 why doesn’t he — why 
can’ t he get over it ?’ ’ and her tears began to flow so fast that 
he said lightly, 

44 That will do, Millie. I won’t have that chair moved. 
Perhaps you think an incipient lawyer has no imagination, 
but I shall see you there to-morrow night. Come away now 
from this room of shadows. Your first visit to me has cost 
you so many tears that you will not come again. ’ ’ 

44 They are not bitter tears. It almost seems as if I had 
found the treasures I had lost. So rar from being saddened, 
I’m happier than I’ve been since I lost them — at least I 
should be if I saw you looking better. Roger, you are grow- 
ing thin ; you don’t act like your old self.” 

“ Well, I won’t work late at night any longer if you don't 
wish me to,” he replied evasively. 


54 * 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


44 Make me that promise," she pleaded eagerly. 

44 Any promise, Millie." 

She wondered at the slight thrill with which her heart re* 
sponded to his low, deep tones. 

In the library she became a different girl. A strange 
buoyancy gave animation to her eyes and a delicate color to 
her face. She did not analyze her feelings. Her determina- 
tion that Roger should have a pleasant evening seemed to 
her sufficient to account for the shining eyes she saw reflected 
in a mirror, and her sparkling words. She praised his selec- 
tion of authors, though adding, with a comical look, "You 
are right in thinking I don’ t know much about them. The 
binding is just to my taste, whatever may be the contents of 
some of these ponderous tomes. There are a good many 
empty shelves, Roger." 

44 I don't intend to buy books by the cart-load," he re- 
plied. 4 4 A library should grow like the man who gathers 
it" 

44 Roger," she said suddenly, 44 I think I see some fancy 
work that I recognize. Yes, here is more." Then she 
darted back into the sitting-room. In a moment she 
returned exclaiming, 44 1 believe the house is full of my 
work. ’ ’ 

44 There is none of your work in the parlors, Millie." 

She ignored the implied reproach in words, but could not 
wholly in manner. 44 So you and Mrs. Wentworth con- 
spired against me, and you got the better of me after all. You 
jrere my magnificent patron. How could you look me in 
the face all those months ? How could you watch my busy 
fingers, looking meanwhile so innocent and indifferent to my 
tasks ? I used to steal some hours from sleep to make you 
little gifts for your bachelor room. They were not fine 
enough for your lordship, I suppose. Have you given them 
tway ?" 


HOME. 547 

“ They are in my room up-stairs. They are too sacred for 
use." 

** Who ever heard of such a sentimental brother I" she said, 
turning abruptly away. 

Mrs. Wheaton was their companion now, and she soon 
gave the final touches to a delicate little supper, which with 
some choice flowers she had placed on the table. It was her 
purpose to wait upon them with the utmost respect and 
deference, but Mildred drew her into a chair, with a look that 
repaid the good soul a hundred times for all the past. 

‘ ‘ Roger, ’ ’ she said gayly, ‘ * Mrs. Wheaton says you don’ t 
eat much. You must make up for all the past this evening. 
I’m going to help you, and don’t you dare to leave any- 
thing. ’ ’ 

“ Very well, I’ve made my will,” he said, with a smiling 
nod. 

“ Oh, don’t talk that way. How much shall I give the 
delicate creature, Mrs. Wheaton ? Look here, Roger, you 
should not take your meals in a library. You are living on 
books, and are beginning to look like their half-starved 
authors. * * 

“ You are right, Miss Millie. ’Alf the time ven I come 
to take havay the thinks I finds ’im readin’, and the wittles 
'ardly touched." 

“ Men are such foolish, helpless things !" the young girl 
protested, shaking her head reprovingly at the offender. 

“ I must have some company," he replied. 

“ Nonsense," she cried, veiling her solicitude under a 
charming petulance. “ Roger, if you don’t behave better, 
you’ll be a fit subject for a hospital." 

* ‘ If I can be sent to your ward I would ask nothing bet- 
ter, ’ ’ was his quick response. 

Again she was provoked at her rising color, for his dark 
eyes glowed with an unmistakable meaning. She changed 


> 4 « 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


the subject by saying, “How many pretty, beautiful, and 
costly things you have gathered in this room already ! 
How comes it that you have been so fortunate in your selec- 
tions ?” 

‘ ‘ The reason is simple. I have tried to follow your taste. 
We’ve been around a great deal together, and I’ve always 
made a note of what you admired.” 

“ Flatterer,” she tried to say severely. 

“ I wasn’t flattering — only explaining.” 

“ Oh dear !” she thought, “ this won’t do at all. This 
homelike house and his loneliness in it will make me ready 
for any folly. Dear old fellow ! I wish he wasn’t so set, or 
rather I wish I were old and wrinkled enough to keep house 
for him now. ’ ’ 

Conscious of a strange compassion and relenting, she 
’astened her departure, fl giving a wistful glance n* 
serene faces of those so dear to her, who seemed to say, 
“ Millie, we have found the home of which you dreamed. 
Why are not you with us ?’ ’ 

Although she had grown morbid in the conviction that she 
could not, and indeed ought not to marry Roger, she walked 
home with him that night with an odd little unrest in her heart, 
and an unexpected discontent with the profession that here- 
tofore had so fully satisfied her with its promise of indepen- 
dence and usefulness. Having spent an hour or two in her 
duties at the hospital, however, she laughed at herself as one 
does when the world regains its ordinary and prosaic hues 
after an absorbing day-dream. Then the hurry and bustle of 
the few days preceding her graduation almost wholly occu- 
pied her mind. 

A large and brilliant company was present in the evening 
on which she received her diploma, for the Training School 
deservedly excited the interest of the best and most philan- 
thropic people in the city. It was already recognized as the 


HOME. 549 

means of giving to women one of the noblest and most use- 
ful careers in which they can engage. 

Mildred’s fine appearance and excellent record drew to 
her much attention, and many sought an introduction. 
Mr. Wentworth beamed on her, and was eloquent on the 
credit she had brought to him. Old Mr. Arnold and Mrs. 
Sheppard spoke to her so kindly and gratefully that her eyes 
grew tearful. Mrs. Wheaton looked on exultantly as the 
proudest and iichest sought the acquaintance of the girl who 
had so long been like her own child. 

But the first to reach and greet her when the formalities of 
the evening were over was her old friend who had been Miss 
Wetheridge. “We have just arrived from along absence 
abroad,” she exclaimed, “ and I’m glad and thankful to say 
that my husband’s health is at last restored. For the first 
year or two he was in such a critical condition that I grew 
selfish in my absorption in his case, and I neglected you — I 
neglected everybody and everything. Forgive me, Mildred. 
I have not yet had time to ask your story from Mr. Went- 
worth, but can see from the way he looks at you that you’ve 
inflated him with exultation, and now I shall wait to hear ak 
from your own lips, ’ ’ and she made the girl promise to give 
her the first hour she could spare. 

In spite of all the claims upon her time and attention, 
Mildred’s eyes often sought Roger’s face, and as often were 
greeted with a bright, smiling glance, for he had determined 
that nothing should mar her pleasure on this evening. 
Once, however, when he thought himself unobserved, she 
saw a look of weariness and dejection that smote her heart. 

When the evening was quite well advanced she came to 
him and said, “ Won’t you walk with me a little in this hall- 
way, where we can be somewhat by ourselves ? It so happens 
that I must go on duty in a few moments, and exchange this 
bright scene for a dim hospital ward ; but I love my calling. 


55o 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Roger, and never has it seemed so noble as on this evening 
while listening to the physician who addressed us. There is 
such a deep satisfaction in relieving pain and rescuing life, 
or at least in trying to do so ; and then one often has f 
chance to say words that may bring lasting comfort. Al- 
though I am without a home myself, you do not blame me 
that I am glad it is my mission to aid in driving away 
fhadows and fear from other homes ?” 

“Iam homeless, too, Millie/' 

“ You ! in that beautiful house, with so many that you 
love looking down upon you ?” 

4 4 Walls and furniture cannot make a home ; neither can 
painted shadows of those far away. I say, Millie, how sick 
must a fellow be in order to have a trained nurse ?” 

She turned a swift, anxious glance upon him. 44 Roger, 
tell me honestly,” she said, 44 are you well ?” 

44 I don’t know, ” he replied, in a low tone ; 44 I fear I’ll 
make you ashamed of me. I didn’t mean to be so weak, 
but I’m all unstrung to-night. I’m losing courage — losing 
zest in life. I seem to have everything, and my friends con- 
sider me one of the luckiest of men. But all I have 
oppresses me and makes me more lonely. When I was 
sharing your sorrows and poverty, I was tenfold happier than 
I am now. I live in a place haunted by ghosts, and every- 
thing in life appears illusive. I feel to-night as if I were los- 
ing you. Your professional duties will take you here and 
there, where I cannot see you very often. ’ ’ 

44 Roger, you trouble me greatly. You are not well at all, 
and your extreme morbidness proves it. ’ ’ 

44 I know it’s very unmanly to cloud your bright evening, 
but my depression has been growing so long and steadily 
that I can’t seem to control it any more. There, Millie, the 
lady superintendent is looking for you. Don’t worry. You 
medical and scientific people know that it is nothing but a 


HOME. 


55 * 


lorpid liver Perhaps I may be ill enough to have a trained 
nurse. You see I am playing a deep game,” and with an 
attempt at a hearty laugh he said good-night, and she was 
compelled to hasten away, but it was with a burdened, anx- 
ious mind. 

A few moments later she entered on her duties in one of 
the surgical wards, performing them accurately from habit, 
but mechanically, for her thoughts were far absent. It 
seemed to her that she was failing one who had never failed 
her, and her self-reproach and disquietude grew stronger 
every moment. * ‘ After all he has been to me, can I leave 
him to an unhappy life ?” was the definite question that now 
presented itself. At last, in a respite from her tasks, she sat 
down and thought deeply. 

Roger, having placed Mrs. Wheaton in a carriage, was 
about to follow on foot, when Mr. Wentworth claimed his 
attention for a time. At last, after the majority of the guests 
had departed, he sallied forth and walked listlessly in the 
frosty air that once had made his step so quick and elastic. 
He had not gone very far before he heard the sound of 
galloping horses, then the voices of women crying for help. 
Turning back he saw a carriage coming toward him at furi- 
ous speed. A sudden recklessness was mingled with his im- 
pulse to save those in extreme peril, and he rushed from the 
sidewalk, sprang and caught with his whole weight the head- 
gear of the horse nearest to him. His impetuous onset com-' 
bined with his weight checked the animal somewhat, and be- 
fore the other horse could drag him very far, a policeman 
came to his aid, dealing a staggering blow behind the beast’s 
ear with his club, then catching the rein. 

Roger’s right arm was so badly strained that it seemed to 
fail him, and before he could get out of the way, the rearing 
horse he was trying to hold struck him down and trampled 
upon him. He was snatched out from under the iron-shod 


$ 5 2 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


hoofs by the fast gathering crowd, but found himself unable 
to rise. 

‘ ‘ Take me to Bellevue, ’ ’ he said decisively. 

The hospital was not far away, and yet before an ambu- 
lance could reach him he felt very faint 

Mildred sat in her little room that was partitioned off from 
the ward. Her eyes were wide and earnest, but that which 
she saw was not present to their vision. 

Suddenly there were four sharp strokes of the bell from the 
hospital gate, and she started slightly out of her reverie, for 
the imperative summons indicated a surgical case which 
might come under her care. There was something so ab- 
sorbing in the character of her thoughts, however, that she 
scarcely heeded the fact that an ambulance dashed in, and 
that the form of a man was lifted out and carried into the 
central office. She saw all this obscurely from her window, 
but such scenes had become too familiar to check a deep 
current of thought. When, a few moments later, the male 
orderly connected with the ward entered and said, “ Miss 
Jocelyn, I’ve been down and seen the books, and accordin’ 
to my reckonin’ we’ll have that case,” she sprang up with 
alacrity, and began assuring herself that every appliance that 
might be needed was in readiness. “ I’m glad I must be 
busy,” she murmured, “for I’m so bewildered by my 
thoughts and impulses in Roger’s behalf, that it’s well I must 
banish them until I can grow calm and learn what is right. ’ ’ 
The orderly was right, and the “case” just brought in 
was speedily carried up on the elevator and borne toward the 
ward under her charge. With the celerity of well-trained 
hands she had prepared everything and directed that her new 
charge should be placed on a cot near her room. She then 
advanced to learn the condition of the injured man. After 
a single glance she sprang forward, crying, 

” Oh, merciful Heaven 1 it's Roger 1” 


HOME. 


553 


“You are acquainted with him then ?” asked the surgeon 
who had accompanied the ambulance, with much interest. 

44 He’s my brother — he’s the best friend I have in the 
world. Oh, be quick — here. Gently now. O God, grant 
his life ! Oh, oh, he’s unconscious ; his coat is soaked with 
blood — but his heart is beating. He will, oh, he will live ; 
will he not ?” 

4 ‘ Oh, yes, I think so, but the case was so serious that I 
followed. You had better summon the surgeon in charge 
of this division, while I and the orderly restore him to con- 
sciousness and prepare him for treatment. ’ ’ 

Before he ceased speaking Mildred was far on her way to 
seek the additional aid. 

When she returned Roger’s sleeve had been removed, 
revealing an ugly wound in the lower part of his left arm, 
cut by the cork of a horseshoe, made long and sharp because 
of the iciness of the streets. A tourniquet had been ap- 
plied to the upper part of the arm to prevent further hemor- 
rhage, and under the administration of stimulants he was 
giving signs of returning consciousness. 

The surgeon in charge of the division soon arrived, and 
every effort of modem skill was made in the patient’s be- 
half. Bottles of hot water were placed around his chilled 
and blood-drained form, and spirits were injected hypoder- 
mically into his system. The fair young nurse stood a little in 
the background, trembling in her intense anxiety, and yet 
so trained and disciplined that with the precision of a veteran 
she could obey the slightest sign from the attendant sur- 
geons. “He never failed me,” she thought; “and if 
loving care can save his life he shall have it night and day.” 

At last Roger knew her, and smiled contentedly ; then 
closed his eyes in almost mortal weariness and weakness. 
As far as he was able to think at all, he scarcely cared 
whether he lived or died, since Mildred was near him. 


554 


WITHOUT A HOME . 


The physicians, after as thorough examination as was pos. 
sible, and doing everything in their power, left him with 
hopeful words. The most serious features in the case were 
his loss of blood and consequent great exhaustion. The 
division surgeon said that the chief danger lay in renewed 
hemorrhage, and should it occur he must be sent for at once, 
and then he left the patient to Mildred’s care, with direc- 
tions as to stimulants and nourishment. 

Mildred would not let Roger speak, and he lay in a 
dreamy, half- waking condition of entire content. As she sat 
beside him holding his hand, she was no longer in doubt. 
44 My 4 stupid old heart,’ as Belle called it, is awake at last,” 
she thought. 44 Oh, how awful would be my desolation if 
he should die ! Now I know what he is to me. I loved 
Vinton as a girl ; I love Roger as a woman. Oh, how 
gladly I’d take his place ! What could I not sacrifice for 
him ! Now I know what he has suffered in his loneliness. 
I understand him at last. I was hoping he would get over 
it — as if I could ever get over this ! He said he was losing 
his zest in life. Oh, what an intolerable burden would his 
loss make of life for me ! O God, spare him ; surely such 
love as this cannot be given to two human souls to be poured 
out like water on the rock of a pitiless fate. ’ ’ 

“Millie,” said Roger faintly, “your hand seems alive, 
and its pulsations send little thrills direct to my heart. Were 
it not for your hand I would think my body already dead.” 

44 Oh, Roger,” she murmured, pressing her lips on his 
hand, 4 4 would to God I could put my blood into your veins. 
Roger, dear beyond all words, don’ t fail me, now that I need 
you as never before. Don’t speak, don’t move. Just rest 
and gain. Hush, hush. Oh, be quiet ! I won’t leave you 
until you are stronger, and I’ 11 always be within call. ’ ’ 

“I’ll mind, Millie. I was never more contented in my life. ’ 
Toward morning he seemed better and stronger, and sh« 


HOME. 


555 


left him a few moments to attend to some other dutiesL 
When she returned she saw to her horror that hemorrhage 
had taken place, and that his arm was bleeding rapidly. She 
sprang to his side, and with trained skill pressed her fingers 
on the brachial artery, thus stopping further loss of blood in- 
stantly. Then calling to the orderly, she told him to lose 
not a second in summoning the surgeon. 

Roger looked up into her terror-stricken face, and said 
quietly, “ Millie, I'm not afraid to die. Indeed I half think 
it's best. I couldn’t go on in the old way much longer — ” 

“ Hush, hush,” she whispered. 

“ No,” he said decisively, “ my mission to you is fin- 
ished. You will be an angel of mercy all your days, but I 
find that after all my ambitious dreams I’m but an ordinary 
man. You are stronger, nobler than I am. You are a sol- 
dier that will never be defeated. You think to save my life 
by holding an artery, but the wound that was killing me is 
in my heart. I don’t blame you, Millie — I’m weak — I’m 
talking at random — ” 

“ Roger, Roger, I’m not a soldier. I am a weak, loving 
woman. I love you with my whole heart and soul, and if 
you should not recover you will blot the sun out of my sky. 
I now know what you are to me. I knew it the moment I 
saw your unconscious face. Roger, I love you now with 
a love like your own — only it must be greater, stronger, 
deeper ; I love you as a woman only can love. In mercy 
to me, rally and live — live /’ ’ 

He looked at her earnestly a momeni, and then a glad 
smile lighted up his face. 

“I’ll live now,” he said quietly. “I should be dead 
indeed did I not respond to that appeal.” 

The surgeon appeared speedily, and again took up and 
tied the artery, giving stimulants liberally. Roger was soon 
sleeping with a quietude and rest in his face that assured 


55 6 


WITHOUT A HOME. 


Mildred that her words had brought balm and healing 
to a wound beyond the physician’s skill, and that he would 
recover. And he did gain hourly from the time she gave him 
the hope for which he had so long and so patiently waited. 
It must be admitted that he played the invalid somewhat, for 
he was extremely reluctant to leave the hospital until the 
period of Mildred’s duties expired. 

A few months later, with Mrs. Heartwold — the Miss 
Wetheridge of former days — by her side, she was driven to 
Roger’ s house — her home now. The parlors were no longer 
empty, and she had furnished them with her own refined 
and delicate taste. But not in the midst of their beauty and 
spaciousness was she married. Mr. Wentworth stood be- 
neath the portraits of her kindred, and with their dear faces 
smiling upon her she gave herself to Roger. Those she 
loved best stood around her, and there was a peace and rest 
in her heart that was beyond joy. 

When all were gone, Roger wheeled the low chair to its 
old place beside the glowing fire, and said, 

“ Millie, at last we both have a home. See how Belle is 
smiling at us. ’ ’ 

“ Dear sister Belle,” Mildred murmured, “ her words have 
come true. She said, Roger, when I was fool enough to 
detest you, that you * would win me yet, ’ and you have — *11 
there is of me. ’ ’ 

Roger went and stood before the young girl’s smiling face, 
saying earnestly, 

“ Dear little Belle, ‘ we shall have good times together yet,’ 
or else the human heart with its purest love and deepest 
yearning is a lie. ’ ’ 

Then turning, he took his wife in his arms and said, 
** Millie darling, we shall never be without a home again. 
Please God it shall be here until we find the better home of 
Heaven.” 


APPENDIX. 


Christian men and women of New York, you — not the shop- 
keepers — are chiefly to blame for the barbarous practice of com- 
pelling women, often but growing girls, to stand from morning 
until evening, and often till late in the night. The supreme 
motive of the majority of the men who enforce this inhuman 
regulation is to make money. Some are kind-hearted enough 
to be very willing that their saleswomen should sit down if 
their customers would tolerate the practice, and others are so 
humane that they grant the privilege without saying, By your 
leave, to their patrons. 

There is no doubt where the main responsibility should be 
placed in this case. 

Were even the intoxicated drayman in charge of a shop, 
when sober he would have sufficient sense not to take a course 
that would drive from him the patronage of the “ best and 
wealthiest people in town.” Upon no class could public 
opinion make itself felt more completely and quickly than 
upon retail merchants. If the people had the humanity to 
say, We will not buy a dime’s worth at establishments that 
insist upon a course at once so unnatural and cruel, the evil 
would be remedied speedily. Employers declare that they 
maintain the regulation because so many of their patrons re- 
quire that the saleswoman shall always be standing and ready 
to receive them. It is difficult to accept this statement, but 
the truth that the shops wherein the rule of standing is most 
rigorously enforced are as well patronized as others is scarcely 
a less serious indictment, and it is also a depressing proof of 
the strange apathy on the question. 

No labored logic is needed to prove the inherent barbarity 
of the practice. Let any man or woman — even the strongest 
—try to stand as long as these frail, underfed girls are re* 


55 * 


APPENDIX. 


quired to be upon their feet, and he or she will have a dem- 
onstration that can never be forgotten. In addition, con- 
sider the almost continual strain on the mind in explaining 
about the goods and in recommending them, in making out 
tickets of purchase correctly while knowing that any er- 
rors will be charged against their slender earnings, or more 
than made good by fines. What is worse, the organs of 
speech are in almost constant exercise, and all this in the 
midst of more or less confusion. The clergyman, the lec- 
turer, is exhausted after an hour of speech. Why are not 
their thunders directed against the inhumanity of compelling 
women to spend ten or twelve hours of speech upon their feet ? 
The brutal drayman was arrested because he was inflicting 
pain on a sentient being. Is not a woman a sentient being ? 
and is any one so ignorant of physiology as not to have some 
comprehension of the evils which must result in most cases 
from compelling women — often too young to be mature — to 
stand, under the trying circumstances that have been de- 
scribed ? 

An eminent physician in New York told me that ten out of 
twelve must eventually lose their health ; and a proprietor of 
one of the shops admitted to me that the girls did suffer this 
irreparable loss, and that it would be better for them if they 
went out to service. 

The fact that cashiers who sit all day suffer more than those 
who stand proves nothing against the wrong of the latter 
practice. It only shows that the imperative law of nature, 
especially for the young, is change, variety. Why not accept 
the fact, and be as considerate of the rights of women as of 
horses, dogs, and cats ? While making my investigations on 
this subject, I asked a gentleman who was in charge of on© 
of the largest retail shops in the city, on what principle he 
dealt with this question. “On the principle of humanity," 
he replied. “ I have studied hygienic science, and know 
that a woman can’t stand continuously except at the cost of 
serious ill-health.” 

Later I asked the proprietor if he did not think that his 
humanity was also the best business policy, for the reason that 


APPENDIX, 559 

his employes were in a better condition to attend to their 
duties. 

“ No,” he said ; “ on strict business principles I would re- 
quire constant standing ; but this has no weight with me, in 
view of the inhumanity of such a rule. If I had the room for 
it in the store, I’d give all my employes a good slice of roast 
beef at noon ; but I have not, and therefore I give them plenty 
of time for a good lunch.” 

The manager of another establishment, which was fur- 
nished with ample means of rest for the girls, said to me, 
“A man that compels a girl to stand all day ought to be 
flogged.” 

He also showed me a clean, comfortable place in the base- 
ment in which the girls ate their lunches. It was supplied 
with a large cooking-stove, with a woman in constant attend- 
ance. Each girl had her own tea- or coffee-pot, and time was 
given for a substantial and wholesome meal. I would rather 
oay ten per cent more for goods at such shops than to buy 
them at others where women are treated as the cheapest kind 
of machines, that are easily replaced when broken down. 

Granting, for the sake of argument, that customers may not 
be waited on quite so promptly, and that the impression of a 
brisk business may not be given if many of the girls are 
seated, these are not sufficient reasons for inflicting torment 
on those who earn their bread in shops. I do not and cannot 
believe, however, that the rule is to the advantage of either 
employer or customer in the long run. It is not common- 
sense that a girl, wearied almost beyond endurance, and dis- 
tracted by pain, can give that pleasant, thoughtful attention 
to the purchaser which she could bestow were she in a normal 
condition. At very slight expense the proprietors of large 
shops could give all their employes a generous plate of soup 
and a cup of good tea or coffee. Many bring meagre and 
unwholesome lunches ; more dine on cake, pastry, and con- 
fectionery. These ill-taught girls are just as prone to sin 
against their bodies as the better taught children of the rich. 
If employers would give them something substantial at mid- 
day, and furnish small bracket seats which could be pulled 


$6o 


APPENDIX. 


out and pushed back within a second of time, they would find 
their business sustained by a corps of comfortable, cheerful, 
healthful employes ; and such a humane, sensible policy cer- 
tainly ought to be sustained by all who have any sympathy 
with Mr. Bergh. 

The belief of many, that the majority of the girls are broken 
down by dissipation, is as superficial as it is unjust. Un- 
doubtedly, many do carry their evening recreation to an in- 
jurious excess, and some place themselves in the way of temp- 
tations which they have not the strength to resist ; but every 
physician knows that some recreation, some relief from the 
monotony of their hard life, is essential. Otherwise, they 
would grow morbid in mind as well as enfeebled in body. 
The crying shame is that there are so few places where these 
girls can go from their crowded tenement homes and find 
innocent entertainment. Their dissipations are scarcely more 
questionable, though not so elegantly veneered, as those of 
the fashionable, nor are the moral and physical effects much 
worse. But comparatively few would go to places of ill- 
repute could they find harmless amusements suited to their 
intelligence and taste. After much investigation, I am satis- 
fied that in point of morals the working-women of New York 
compare favorably with any class in the world. To those 
who do not stand aloof and surmise evil, but who acquaint 
themselves with the facts, it is a source of constant wonder 
that in their hard and often desperate struggle for bread they 
still maintain so high a standard. 

Tenement life with scanty income involves many shadows 
at best, but in the name of manhood I protest against taking 
advantage of the need of bread to inflict years of pain and 
premature death. We all are involved in this wrong to the 
degree that we sustain establishments from which a girl is 
discharged if she does not or cannot obey a rule which it 
would be torture for us to keep. 

I shall be glad, indeed, if these words hasten by one hour 
the time when from the temple of human industry all trad< 
ers shall be driven out wno thrive on the agonies of girls as 
frail and impoverished as Mildred Jocelyn. 


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